Carson and Hughes, from A to Z
by evitamockingbird
Summary: A collection of one-shots featuring Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes, using a set of prompts written by Kissman - one prompt for each letter of the alphabet. Some fluff and some angst. High angst updates will include a warning at the beginning of the chapter. A few chapters may include S5 spoilers, but there will ALWAYS be a spoiler warning at the top of the chapter.
1. Burden

**This collection is based on a set of prompts written by Kissman, one prompt for each letter of the alphabet. There is a reason that I'm starting with the B prompt. I will explain it a little later, when the A prompt comes up.**

**I've rated the collection Romance/Angst, but this applies to the collection as a whole, not each story. Plenty of them will be all fluff and zero angst. I will give warnings at the beginning of any stories that are very angsty. Some mildly or moderately angsty stories will receive no warning.**

**Thank you for the challenge, Kissman!**

**Burden: a story about one character sharing or demanding to share a burden of the other.**

**Season 1, just because.**

Mr. Carson walked through the green baize door and was surprised to find a large pile of bed linens walking slowly and unsteadily up the stairs in his direction. He stood still and watched for a moment while the neatly folded sheets swayed a bit and then regained their footing and marched firmly in his direction. The wall of soft cloth hit him in the chest and muttered a soft curse.

"Mrs. Hughes, why are you carrying all of those linens up the stairs?" Mr. Carson asked.

"Every single one of my maids is ill today. I've got to make all the beds." Her voice was muffled by the sheets in front of her face.

"What I meant was why are you carrying so many at once? You could be badly hurt if you lost your footing on the stairs. Don't you train your own maids better than that?"

She sighed from behind her burden. "I do, Mr. Carson. It was a foolish thing to do, but I'm halfway to my destination so you'd better let me get on before I drop them all."

"I don't think so, Mrs. Hughes," he said, lifting about two thirds of the linens away from her. "I'll take these wherever you need them to go. Lead on, and I'll follow."

Mrs. Hughes sighed in relief when the extra weight was lifted off of her. "Very well," she agreed, a small, sheepish smile on her lips. She moved up the stairs much more quickly now, but Mr. Carson was long-limbed enough to keep up with her. Before long they were on the bedroom gallery. Mrs. Hughes entered one of the rooms and Mr. Carson followed her in.

"You can set those linens on the chair by the vanity," she directed him. She had already laid her smaller burden on another chair and was tugging the sheets from the bed. Mr. Carson did as she bid him. "Thank you, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes said, tossing a quick smile over her shoulder. He surprised her by crossing the room to the other side of the bed from her and helping her pull the sheets from the bed. "What on earth are you doing?" she wanted to know.

"What does it look like?" he asked, deliberately obtuse. "I'm helping you change the linens on this bed."

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. "Yes, but why?" She was amused, but also simply surprised, and not entirely convinced that he wasn't making a joke of some kind.

Mr. Carson rolled up the used sheets and looked up at Mrs. Hughes. "So you won't have to do all the bedrooms yourself," he answered, as though nothing made more sense in the world than the butler making beds. "Now pass me one of those clean sheets."

She laughed, still not quite sure he was serious. "Don't you think this is a bit beneath your dignity, Mr. Carson?"

He raised an eyebrow. "It's rather beneath _your_ dignity as well, is it not?"

"Perhaps," Mrs. Hughes conceded. "But if these aren't done, I'll be the one to answer for it. You're free to go about your usual butlering." She tried to shoo him out of the room with a wave of her hand. "I promise I won't carry too many at once."

Mr. Carson didn't move. "Mrs. Hughes, I've said I'm going to help you and I mean it," he told her, a stubborn glint in his eye telling Mrs. Hughes there was no point in arguing. She shrugged and took a sheet from the neat pile beside her.

"Very well," she relented, unfolding the sheet and sending it fluttering across the bed, all in one neat motion. Mr. Carson quickly got to work on the head of the bed on the side where he stood. He clumsily stuffed the corners of the sheet under the mattress and tucked it in down the side. He was stuffing the sheets under the foot of the mattress into his best approximation of a corner, when he heard Mrs. Hughes giggle from behind him. He was startled; he had not noticed her approach. And since when did Mrs. Hughes giggle?

"What's so funny?" he asked her.

"I can see you're not in the habit of making beds, Mr. Carson." She used her hand to gesture toward his work before bringing it to cover her mouth, but a laugh escaped.

Mr. Carson pulled himself up to his full height and drew his great brows together. "I'm glad you find this entertaining, Mrs. Hughes," he told her, frowning.

The juxtaposition of Mr. Carson's offended dignity and his sloppy work on such a menial task was too much for Mrs. Hughes and she dissolved into laughter. "You'll have to do better than that, Mr. Carson," she said, trying to stop laughing. "Otherwise I might have to sack you without a reference." As long as he continued to give her that great towering frown, however, Mrs. Hughes could not stop laughing. Without thinking, she grasped his upper arm to steady herself. At last, Mr. Carson's frown relaxed and he began to laugh as well. After a few moments, they were calm, but at almost the same instant, two pair of eyes were drawn to Mrs. Hughes's hand, which was still clutching Mr. Carson's bicep. Those two pair of eyes then met each other for a few silent seconds before Mrs. Hughes quickly pulled her hand away and began smoothing her skirt.

"I suppose if you're going to help me I'll have to show you how it's done," she told him.

"All right," Mr. Carson agreed. "Tell me what to do."

"First pull out everything you've just done," she ordered. "I'm sorry to have to say it, Mr. Carson, but it's rubbish."

Mr. Carson smiled as he followed her instruction. He could perceive that Mrs. Hughes was getting great amusement out of teasing him for his wretched housemaid skills, but he didn't mind. The whole situation was rather silly; he was prepared to laugh at himself and Mrs. Hughes's manner of teasing him was never cruel or unkind.

"Now, I'm going to show you how it's done on this corner, and then you'll try it yourself on that corner." Mrs. Hughes deftly folded the sheet neatly around the corner of the bed.

"I could hardly see what you did!" Mr. Carson protested. "How do you do that so fast?"

Mrs. Hughes gave an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. "Very well, I'll go slower." She showed him again, much more slowly this time, how to fold the corner and this time he applied himself studiously to the task of folding the other one. Mrs. Hughes nodded. "Not half bad," she allowed. "We'll make a housemaid of you yet, Mr. Carson," she remarked crisply, making her way to the other side of the bed. She pulled out another sheet and flipped it over the bed, followed by the counterpane, and they finished the work together. Mrs. Hughes picked up her stack of sheets and Mr. Carson took up the linens he had left by the vanity.

In the next room, Mrs. Hughes inspected Mr. Carson's finished work before they left, but she pronounced it passable enough not to have to be redone and they moved on. By the third room, they had established a comfortable rhythm and started chatting as they worked.

"Does this remind you of your days as a housemaid, Mrs. Hughes?"

"It does," she told him. "Those were days of hard work, but there was still a certain carefree quality about it all that my life lacks now."

"I think I know what you mean. Not as much physical labor, but you give the orders and you bear the final responsibility."

"Yes, exactly," Mrs. Hughes agreed. "I don't say I regret it, or that I'm unhappy. It's just different. I don't have the time now to get up to some of the mischief I did then."

"Mischief?" Mr. Carson's eyes lit up in curiosity. "What kind of mischief?"

Mrs. Hughes eyed Mr. Carson suspiciously over the bed they were changing. "I'll give you a story, Mr. Carson, on one condition."

"And what's that?"

"I want a story from you, too," she said, a teasing smile on her lips. "No one will ever make me believe that you have _always_ behaved yourself. There must be some mischievous tale from your youth that you can amuse me with."

"I would deny it to anyone but you," Mr. Carson chuckled. "Go on. What did you get up to?"

Mrs. Hughes bit her lip, mulling over what she might say. She wasn't about to admit it to Mr. Carson, but she could tell quite a few stories of her own mischievous behavior. "Well, when I was about sixteen, I was a housemaid. There was a village dance I wanted to go to, but the housekeeper wasn't allowing it, nor was the butler letting the young men go. There was a house party starting the next day and we all needed to be on our toes." Mrs. Hughes paused for a moment.

"But you sneaked out and went to the dance, anyway?" Mr. Carson prompted.

She sighed. "In my foolishness, I did. I went with one of the footmen. I knew he was keen on me, and though I wasn't really keen on him, I liked him well enough and thought I'd be safe with him at a public dance. We managed to get out of the house without being seen. I enjoyed a few dances, but my escort said he'd like to get me a proper drink. I didn't want to leave the dance, but I didn't want to be left alone, so I went with him. He took me to the pub and it wasn't long before I knew I'd best get back home with or without him."

"A poor excuse for an escort, it sounds like," Mr. Carson remarked. "Did he try to…?"

"He tried to kiss me, but I set him about his business. The next morning he had a nice red mark on his cheek to go with his headache. I left him at the pub and ran all the way home. I don't know when he got home, but by the look of him the next day, I think he must have stayed there drinking for quite a while after I left."

"I don't imagine he tried anything untoward after that," Mr. Carson conjectured.

"Certainly not," Mrs. Hughes confirmed with satisfaction. "Mr. Carson, you're not paying attention to your work. Pull that sheet out and do it over again."

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes," he agreed, doing as she'd asked. "Just don't sack me, please."

"Don't worry," she told him. "I can see you're a hard worker and I know you'll catch on eventually."

"High praise, indeed," Mr. Carson muttered, but he was enjoying this little game they were playing.

"Now it's your turn, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes pointed out, as they moved from one room to the next. She looked at him expectantly as they pulled the linens from the bed.

"I also tried to sneak out for a dance once," Mr. Carson admitted.

"Are you a dancer, too, then?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"You know I dance," he told her. "Every year at the Servants' Ball."

"Well, yes, of course you dance, but if you sneaked out to go to a dance, that means you _like_ dancing. Or at least that you did then."

Mr. Carson smiled. "I did and I do. But this dance I wanted to go to was in the next village. I was rather smitten with a girl, a housemaid like you, who lived there, and I'd promised to meet her. The trouble was that there wasn't any moon that night and I lost my way. It started to rain and I was covered in mud by the time the sun rose. I asked the first person I met on the road the way back home and ran all the way there. I made it in just enough time not to get caught, but I'd had no sleep, so I was miserable the next day."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "And the housemaid?"

"She was pretty vexed with me, even when I tried to explain. So that was the end of that, though I can't say it's any great tragedy. A very young man may chase many pretty girls, but it's often best if he doesn't catch one until he's a bit older."

"Very wisely spoken," Mrs. Hughes agreed. She gathered up some dirty sheets. "We've only one room to go, Mr. Carson."

Mr. Carson felt a great deal of disappointment that this little amusement was almost at an end - much more than he thought he should. But he'd forgotten his troubles for a little while and enjoyed Mrs. Hughes's company while she was in a merry humor. It had been an unexpectedly pleasant morning.

When Mrs. Hughes cast the sheet over the last bed, Mr. Carson waited until it fluttered to the mattress before he started. Mrs. Hughes finished quickly, but he dawdled. "Mrs. Hughes, can you come help me? I'm afraid I'm doing this wrong again."

"Of course." She came to stand behind him and patiently talked him through the first corner. When he stood up after completing it, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision and turned around, where he was nothing short of astounded to see Mrs. Hughes dancing with an invisible partner. She noticed that he had caught her and almost stopped, but Mr. Carson took her in his arms, filling in for her absent partner. Mrs. Hughes was very surprised at first, but she grinned again in response to the easy smile on Mr. Carson's face. They danced around the room for a few moments.

"You looked so happy, I had to join you," Mr. Carson explained.

She responded only with a smile and they danced for a minute or two, but the sound of voices outside the room sent Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to different parts of the room. Mrs. Hughes got to work completing what Mr. Carson had left unfinished and Mr. Carson stood by the vanity, looking very unsure of himself.

"Carson?" Lady Mary knocked on the half open door and entered the room, followed by Lady Sybil.

"Milady?" he answered. "How can I help?"

"I told you he was in here," Lady Sybil whispered to her sister.

"Just a message from his lordship," Lady Mary told him. "He'd like to see you in the library this afternoon at about three." She looked around curiously. "Why are you here, Carson?"

"Mr. Carson's just checking up on me, milady," Mrs. Hughes answered for him. "He likes to look in on the housemaids while they're at work, but I'm changing all the linens today."

"That seems a little high and mighty of you, Carson," teased Lady Sybil. "Don't you think Mrs. Hughes can be trusted to make the beds properly without your checking up on her?"

Mrs. Hughes kept her head down and continued working, biting her lip to prevent a laugh from escaping. Poor Mr. Carson.

"Of course she can, milady," Mr. Carson sputtered. "I was only checking bedrooms because I had forgotten Mrs. Hughes would be making beds today, but once I saw her I was reminded of a question I need to ask her about dinner."

"We'll let you get on with your work, Carson," Lady Mary declared. "Come, Sybil." The two young ladies left the room. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes stood still in the room until their voices had faded completely.

"Are you quite well, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked, approaching him. He looked rather red in the face and she thought she might be in for a scolding. She had left him open to Lady Sybil's gentle attack, after all.

"What a relief we weren't caught," he replied.

"Yes, that would have required a great deal of explaining," Mrs. Hughes agreed. "Well, it looks like we're finished here. Can you just help me gather up the dirty linen to take to the laundry?"

Mr. Carson had not moved, however, and was looking just as red and confused as he had before. "What if they'd seen?" he murmured, staring into space.

"Come, Mr. Carson, it's not as bad as all that," she tried to soothe him. "It's not as though we were up to anything very terrible. Inappropriate, yes, but hardly enough to get us sacked. You look as though we were on the verge of being caught _en deshabille_ in the bed we've just made."

If Mr. Carson had laughed at her indelicate jest, she would have felt perfectly comfortable, would have laughed and moved on with her work. But he did not. He stood still, his face flaming red, looking everywhere but at her.

Mrs. Hughes felt her own face turning pink as understanding dawned on her. "Oh dear," she said to herself. She must have touched on something with her risqué comment. Perhaps they had not been _en deshabille_ in one of the family's bedrooms, but the thought must have occurred to him. Whether it had been before or after her foolish remark was immaterial to Mrs. Hughes. The problem now was that they were still standing, dreadfully embarrassed, together in this room, when they both had work to do elsewhere.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes apologized. "I shouldn't have said something so coarse. I'm not sure what came over me."

He seemed to relax a little, though he still would not look at her.

"Will you help me with the dirty linens, Mr. Carson? I don't think I can manage them all myself." Mrs. Hughes stood at the foot of the bed, trying and failing to think of what else she might say to make him more comfortable. Mr. Carson's eyes darted around the room a few moments longer before he finally let them rest on her face.

"Of course I'll help," he told her, but he didn't move.

"I really am sorry, Mr. Carson," she apologized again.

"It's all right," he replied gently. "I'm not angry."

"Well, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. But we'll say no more about it. There's a pile of linens on the floor over there," she pointed out.

"Did you enjoy dancing just now?" Mr. Carson asked her.

"I did, Mr. Carson," she answered. "Thank you."

Mr. Carson stepped closer to Mrs. Hughes. "I might be no better than your keen, drunken footman," he murmured.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Mrs. Hughes wanted to know.

"Slap me very hard if I anger or distress you, Mrs. Hughes, and I promise never, and I mean _never_, to repeat the offense." Mrs. Hughes looked into his face in complete confusion. Mr. Carson took her tenderly by the shoulders, bent down, and kissed her. Mrs. Hughes dropped the linens she had been carrying and took hold of his upper arms for support as his lips moved over hers. It wasn't a very long kiss, nor was it particularly short. When he let her go, he made sure she was steady on her feet and then began to gather sheets from the floor on the other side of the room. Mrs. Hughes was immobile with shock for a few seconds before she began to gather up the sheets she had dropped at her feet. Mr. Carson was reaching for the door knob when she spoke.

"Wait," she called to him. Mr. Carson turned and faced Mrs. Hughes. "You're not like that footman at all."

"Oh?" Mr. Carson looked hopeful.

"For one thing, I can't even _imagine_ you drunk, Mr. Carson," she began, taking a businesslike tone. "Aside of that, you won't have a red mark on your face; I assure you, no slap is necessary. As for being keen, well, your kissing me could mean you're keen or it could mean that you just felt like kissing me. Only you can answer that question. Regardless of all that, I think you come in well ahead of that keen footman, in every way but one."

"And what's that?"

She grinned impishly. "He did dance with me for more than three minutes before he tried to kiss me."

Mr. Carson smiled sheepishly, but bowed in her direction. "I'd be honored to escort you to a dance at the next chance I get. And you can be sure that your dancing, kissing butler is keen. Very keen, indeed." He turned away and left the room, arms full of linen.

Mrs. Hughes smiled as she followed him, performing a quick pirouette just before she reached the door. When she stepped out of the room, she looked severe again, and she walked, rather than danced, down the gallery. There would be time for laughing and dancing _and kissing_ later. Mr. Carson was well ahead of her and would reach the laundry before she did, but she hoped they might meet in the corridor. She hadn't properly thanked him for helping her with this morning's burden.

_The end._

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	2. Cradle

**Cradle: a story about our characters and an infant or small child.**

No one could remember how it started, but although Dr. Clarkson had assured Lady Mary that nothing was wrong and that some children begin speaking later than others, most of the household had begun talking to little George as much as possible whenever they had the chance. Why so many people thought this would help the boy begin to speak himself, no one could say, but family and servants alike took part.

It was on this subject that Lady Mary summoned Mrs. Hughes one day. She sent a message through Anna in the middle of the morning, requesting that Mrs. Hughes come to her room.

"How can I help, milady?" Mrs. Hughes asked, curious about why Lady Mary might have asked for her particularly.

Lady Mary held herself as confidently as always, but she seemed uncertain what to say at first. "George woke up this morning and started talking to Nanny," she began. "He has paused only to eat."

"Oh, I'm so happy to hear it, milady," Mrs. Hughes replied. She was truly glad of the news, but she still wasn't sure what this had to do with her.

Lady Mary gave a little smile. "I'm afraid he's caused some embarrassment in the house, as he's been repeating things he's been told. Some members of the household never considered that what they said might later be repeated."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hughes replied, amused. "Well, I think I'm safe. I doubt anyone will find my comments on the weather or Mrs. Patmore's order lists very interesting."

Lady Mary paused again, now avoiding Mrs. Hughes's gaze and looking rather embarrassed.

"Is something wrong, milady?"

Lady Mary heaved a sigh and shook her head, searching for words. "Your Christian name is Elsie, isn't it?" she finally blurted out.

Mrs. Hughes was taken aback. "It is."

"George has been telling me about you," Lady Mary told her.

"Me?"

"Yes, I've been hearing all about Elsie this morning."

Mrs. Hughes furrowed her brow. "But how should he know my Christian name?" she wondered. "I'm always Mrs. Hughes to little George."

"I'm sure I don't know," Lady Mary answered. "But he's told me you are lovely and wonderful."

Mrs. Hughes flushed. "I don't know what to say." The conversation was growing more uncomfortable and more confusing by the second.

Lady Mary pushed past her own obvious embarrassment and continued. "George went walking with Carson yesterday, did he not?"

Mrs. Hughes was beginning to understand. "Yes, milady, he did. Mr. Carson is very fond of the lad."

"It seems Carson is also very fond of someone called Elsie. He loves her in fact." Mrs. Hughes was speechless. "I can't vouch for the truth of everything my son says, Mrs. Hughes, but I thought you should know."

Mrs. Hughes only nodded. If her life had depended on it, she probably could have produced some sound, but as it was she stood mute; she felt quite breathless and her heart pounded in her ears.

"I hope I've done right in telling you," Lady Mary remarked, a crease appearing between her brows. "I hope I haven't caused any trouble."

"I don't think so," Mrs. Hughes managed. "Is there anything else, milady?"

"No, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you."

Mrs. Hughes left the room and made her way downstairs, her legs trembling beneath her. _Is it true?_ she wondered. _How on earth can I find out? It's taking quite a risk._ Risk or no, however, Mrs. Hughes found that she couldn't move on until she knew. She knocked on the door of Mr. Carson's pantry and he called for her to enter. He was standing behind his desk looking over several sheets of paper.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked, smiling at her.

"Have you been speaking to little George about me?" she wanted to know.

This question took Mr. Carson by surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I've just been to see Lady Mary," Mrs. Hughes answered. "Apparently the boy started speaking this morning."

"Why that's wonderful!"

"He's been repeating a lot of what's been said to him, which is quite a lot, it seems." Mrs. Hughes watched Mr. Carson's face intently. His eyes were full of uncertainty, even anxiety.

"I suppose it would be," he remarked cautiously, scrutinizing her just as carefully as she did him.

Mrs. Hughes gathered her courage and took a deep breath before speaking. "If what George told his mother is true, it's brought about an odd circumstance."

Mr. Carson gulped. "What's that?"

"That Lady Mary Crawley has been the person to tell me that you love me." Neither moved. "Is it true?" Mrs. Hughes asked softly, a slight smile on her face.

Mr. Carson's eyes wandered her face for a few seconds before he answered. "It's true."

Mrs. Hughes's smile grew. "Good. I'm glad. I think I'll skip over George and Lady Mary, though, and just tell you myself that I love you, too."

Mr. Carson's face finally relaxed and broke into a smile.

"Why are you standing over there, Mr. Carson?" she asked him, her eyes merry.

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused once again.

Mrs. Hughes gave Mr. Carson a look that he could only have described as flirtatious. "Shall I ask Lady Mary to tell you to come kiss me?"

He laughed softly, crossed the room in three strides, and took her in his arms. She melted into his embrace. "That won't be necessary," he murmured as he lowered his lips to hers.

_The end._

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	3. Daydreams

_***WARNING: ANGST***_

**Daydreams: a story where one character daydreams about the other.**

_"Charles, what on earth are you doing?" Elsie laughed as she entered their little kitchen._

_Charles tried to look dignified, but he was not very successful. A sober frown could only do so much when he was in his rolled-up shirtsleeves and wearing his wife's apron, a frilly, flowered thing that was almost too small to tie around his middle. "What does it look like?" he asked her, unable to maintain his stern expression. "I'm making dinner."_

_Elsie's eyes widened. "I didn't know you could cook."_

_"Well, I'm not entirely sure that I _can_, my dear," he admitted with a sigh. "I was hoping we'd have shepherd's pie tonight, but if I fail it will be sandwiches."_

_Elsie crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Charles's middle. "What's brought on this sudden interest in cooking?"_

_Charles shrugged and returned her embrace. "I just thought it might be a nice surprise for you not to have to cook today. You can go into the sitting room and put your feet up. Read the newspaper or a novel."_

_She smiled. "That's terribly sweet of you, Charles. You're very good to me, you know, even if we end up eating sandwiches tonight."_

_"I do try, Elsie," he replied seriously. "I love you and I want you to be happy."_

_"I love you, too, my man."_

_"I don't want you ever to regret marrying me," he told her, his expression serious._

_"I never could, Charles," she assured him._

_Charles kissed her hair. "Now go relax and enjoy yourself, love," he told her, pointing toward the sitting room. "I'll take care of dinner one way or another."_

_Elsie stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek before leaving the room. She picked up the novel she had been reading and opened it to the page she had marked. Then she sat down and rested her feet on the ottoman. She was quite content with her situation - more than content, really. Blissfully happy would have better described how she felt every day when she woke up next to Charles and all day long knowing that they belonged to each other. When she heard the sound of her husband's humming from the kitchen, she sighed and smiled. Instead of reading she picked out the tune coming from the kitchen and sang softly along with him. The book lying forgotten on her lap hardly mattered; she had read it before._

_About a half hour later, Charles appeared in the doorway looking very proud of himself. He had removed the apron and rolled down his sleeves. "Dinner awaits, my dear," he told Elsie, standing to attention the way he did in the days when he was a butler announcing dinner to lords and ladies. Only the barely concealed smile and the twinkle in his eyes was different. Elsie allowed him to usher her into the kitchen and pull out her chair for her._

A loud noise in the corridor brought Mrs. Hughes back to the present. She was sitting at her desk and her mind had wandered, her little daydream no doubt brought on by fatigue and the delicious smell of the servants' dinner cooking. Mrs. Hughes smiled at the little daydream. She had stopped denying to herself that she was in love with Mr. Carson and that she hoped he might one day love her back, or at least that they might eventually marry. They were close friends, and although she knew she was putting herself at risk of heartbreak, she didn't seem able to keep from hoping. She could be patient; she knew it might take years to bring him round to the idea. But until then, she at least was at his side running Downton. It was worth a great deal to Mrs. Hughes, even if it was less than the love and marriage she wished they would ultimately share.

Her daydream pushed her to her feet; she had barely seen Mr. Carson since breakfast and she missed him. She would make up some ordinary reason for dropping by his pantry. If she was lucky she might find occasion to tease him and make him smile.

She knocked on his door and opened it. "Mr. Carson, I-" Mrs. Hughes could not finish her sentence, because reality had knocked all the wind out of her. She felt as though she had been struck in the chest and she could not breathe for a few seconds, for at the butler's desk sat, not Mr. Carson, but Mr. Jameson. "Oh, Mr. Jameson, I beg your pardon," she apologized, in a voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you." With that, Mrs. Hughes closed the pantry door, fled back to her sitting room, and closed the door, sinking into a chair.

Mr. Carson had been at Haxby for six months and yet she still sometimes forgot that he was gone. It was terribly embarrassing and incredibly distressing. Her heart seemed to break afresh every time she forgot and then remembered. Mrs. Hughes wondered if Mr. Jameson thought she was mad or senile, but she knew she was neither. She slept very little; his absence caused her physical pain and her life lost much of its color. She craved sleep, but even that wish was denied her. These daydreams were the only bright spot in her life; the rest of the time she was either in agony or she felt nothing. She could not decide which was worse, but both kept her awake at night. Mrs. Hughes still rose every morning and did her job as she always had. Sometimes she wondered where she found the strength.

For a moment, Mrs. Hughes felt her accustomed vigor returning and something like resolution overtook her mind. There must be something she could do. She would never have her daydream, but Mr. Carson was not completely lost to her. She would find some way to visit him. They could drink a pot of tea together. She might see him smile. It was not long, however, before this animation left her and once again she felt like a woman wandering the desert with no water. Hers would be a slow death. The intensity of her misery might be lessened to some degree with the passage of time, but Mrs. Hughes could not imagine ever being happy again.

At dinner she was hard pressed not to weep as she ate her shepherd's pie.

_The end._

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	4. Education

**Education: a story where one character teaches something to the other.**

Everything was quiet downstairs, most of the lights switched off, and everyone gone up to bed. After a brief search for Mr. Carson in his pantry and the servants' hall, Mrs. Hughes found him out in the yard. The moon was almost full and he was not wearing his coat, so he was easy to spot even though it was late. Mrs. Hughes was about to speak to him when he suddenly started to run, raising an arm over his head and one leg out in front of him. She smiled when she realized what he was doing. The house vs. village cricket match had taken place earlier today; he was practicing his bowling.

"You played well today, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes called out, letting the door close quietly behind her. He was startled and turned immediately in her direction, straightening his waistcoat and drawing himself up straight. When she approached him she could see that he was a little embarrassed at being caught out. She came to stand beside him. "I don't know if I'll ever understand cricket, but it was easy enough to see that the house team would be in some trouble without you."

Mr. Carson hoped the night hid his blush at her compliment. "Oh, I'm sure that's not true," he demurred.

Mrs. Hughes shrugged. "Well, I can tell you enjoy it, in any case."

He relaxed and smiled naturally. "I do," he admitted. "I really do."

"And you look very smart in your cricket whites," she commented.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat, uncertain how to respond to her flirting. There was silence for a while before he spoke. "Did you play any games when you were a girl? Not cricket, I would guess, but perhaps something else?"

"I did," Mrs. Hughes replied. "I can't remember anymore what we played, but I loved to run and I often got a scolding from my mother when I came home dirty, which was often." She laughed softly at the memory. "I find cricket very interesting, though. It's terribly complicated, but I still enjoy watching it."

"It's not so complicated once you learn the rules," Mr. Carson rumbled. "Though to be honest I think some of our players don't really understand the rules - they just know how to bat and run."

Mrs. Hughes laughed softly. "Then perhaps I _could_ play cricket for the house someday," she quipped.

Mr. Carson turned and looked down at her. "I could teach you, if you'd like," he told her. She laughed at him. He thought her enchanting when she laughed like that, but he persisted. "I mean it. I don't think his lordship will let you on the team next year, but I could show you how to bat or bowl."

Mrs. Hughes looked up into his face, trying to gauge his seriousness. She was surprised to find that he was in earnest. He waited eagerly for her answer and she found she could not refuse. "All right. When do we start?" she answered, smiling.

Mr. Carson's smile widened a little and he touched her shoulder briefly. "Stay right here," he told her before hurrying inside. Mrs. Hughes waited, wondering, and a few minutes later he appeared with a cricket bat and ball. He had also removed his waistcoat, tie, and collar, and rolled up his sleeves. "I think we should go out on the grass," he told her. "The moon is out so we'll be able to see well enough."

Mrs. Hughes was caught by his enthusiasm and they hurried together out of the yard and onto the lawn. They didn't need a real cricket pitch; a level, grassy area would do very well. Mr. Carson held out the bat and the ball. "What should you like to try - bat or ball?"

Mrs. Hughes took the bat from his hand immediately. "Oh, definitely the bat." She turned it over in her hands, studying the handle and the blade in the moonlight.

Mr. Carson dropped the ball to the ground. "If you were to play in a proper match, you would play with a smaller bat," he began. "A batsman's height is part of what determines what size bat she uses. But I think you can manage with this one for the present."

"For the present? Does that mean you will buy me my own bat someday, Mr. Carson?" she asked teasingly.

"Never mind that," he answered, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Just pay attention while I show you how to hold the bat." Mr. Carson stood close beside her and took the bat from her hands. He showed her how he placed his right hand closer to the blade than his left and then began to demonstrate the different positions in a swing. "Now you try it," he directed, putting the bat back into her hands. Mrs. Hughes succeeded fairly well at replicating his grip on the handle. "Good, good," he encouraged. "Now show me your stance."

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "I'm afraid I'll need more help on that. Can you show me again?"

Mr. Carson came back to stand beside her and explained again how she should stand. She managed it, more or less, so he decided to move on to the swing. She was far less successful here, however, and Mr. Carson scratched his head, trying to figure out how he might better explain the proper technique to her. After a few attempts at putting the swing of a cricket bat into words, he realized he was going to have to touch her. He wondered why he had thought this would be such a good idea. Mr. Carson directed her to go back to the beginning stance and stood facing her. He gently tapped her forearm and instructed her where she should move it, then tapped her other arm and pointed, explaining the motions all the while. This worked better than just telling her how to do it, but she still didn't understand the mechanics of a proper swing.

Mr. Carson studied Mrs. Hughes again. She was taller than the smallest hallboys who had played in the match earlier that day. Mr. Carson had helped those youngest ones with their swings and he might be able to show her in the same way he had shown them, but he wasn't sure if he should. His eyebrows drew together as he tried to decide whether to suggest it or to end this little amusement by claiming his feet hurt or he had a headache.

"What's wrong, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked. "Are you regretting your offer to teach this very untalented pupil? I won't hold you to it." She held out the bat to him, giving her a little rueful smile.

Mr. Carson did not take it from her, however, but continued to regard her seriously. Mrs. Hughes was offering to end their little lesson. He should accept her offer and go no further. Later, he would wonder why he chose to continue. "There is one other way I might be able to teach you, Mrs. Hughes, if you would permit me."

Mrs. Hughes was curious. "Permit you to…?" She gasped when Mr. Carson moved to stand behind her, his arms reached down and around her, and his hands covered hers, helping her grip the bat properly.

They commonly found themselves in close quarters - whispering in doorways, between courses in the servery, and sitting side-by-side in church - but there was something very new to Mr. Carson about being so close to Mrs. Hughes, with his arms wrapped around her like this. Fortunately for Mr. Carson, cricket was second nature to him, so he could continue to instruct her even though he found her scent quite distracting and her nearness entirely beguiling. He gently guided her movements and she followed his instructions.

Mrs. Hughes was not _quite_ overwhelmed by him, but she wasn't able to really speak. She nodded or shook her head and occasionally murmured a word or two in response to his directions. She also had to fight the odd urge to close her eyes and sigh. Mrs. Hughes felt suddenly cold when Mr. Carson moved away from her and picked up the ball.

"I'll bowl now," he was saying as he walked away from her. "Remember what I told you about moving to meet the ball. I'll make it an easy one."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't remember much of what he had said, but she _did_ remember the feel of his arms around her, so she was able to recreate some of the motions properly. However, she failed to make contact with the ball on her first attempt. She kept trying, but after a while she gave up. "I hope you can keep my secret, Mr. Carson," she said, smiling.

"Your secret?"

"The staff would never respect me again if they knew that I'm rubbish at cricket."

Mr. Carson laughed quietly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mrs. Hughes. But perhaps you'd do better if we traded places? I think I might be able to teach you the basics of bowling pretty easily."

Mrs. Hughes looked doubtful. "I'm willing to try it, but I don't imagine I'll bowl much better than I batted."

As it happened, she was wrong, and after a few lessons, Mrs. Hughes had the basic idea. She had a feeling it might be due to the fact that Mr. Carson didn't need to wrap both arms around her to instruct her. His touch was no longer timid, but he simply stood beside her and used both hands to guide her arm while he explained the corresponding steps she must take. After a little while he let go of her and had her try it a few times on her own.

"That's excellent for a beginner, Mrs. Hughes," he complimented her. "Let me get my bat and we'll see how you and I stand up against each other."

"You should be glad that no one's watching, Mr. Carson," she teased. "I might take your place on the house team next year."

Mr. Carson laughed. "I'm ready, Mrs. Hughes."

Mrs. Hughes bowled and Mr. Carson hit the ball squarely with the blade of his bat. Mrs. Hughes clapped her hands in delight as the ball rolled past her. Mr. Carson smiled as he watched her turn to retrieve it. Her hair was coming loose and she was laughing, clearly enjoying herself, and he did not think he had ever seen her looking lovelier. He was so lost in these pleasant thoughts that her next bowling action nearly passed him by, but he caught sight of the ball just in time to knock it back in her direction. She found it and bowled once more. This time, after he had hit the ball, Mr. Carson began to feel that his behavior was rather ungentlemanly. He could see that she was tiring a bit from chasing every ball he hit while he stood and watched her gradually becoming more delightfully flushed and disheveled. He laid down his bat and jogged after the ball, easily catching up with Mrs. Hughes, but she suddenly came to a stop.

"I can't find it," she said, breathless. "Perhaps it's in one of those shadowy spots on the lawn." They continued walking together and in a moment came upon the little ball. Both reached for it at once and both grasped it at the same time. When they stood upright, both the ball and Mrs. Hughes's hand were enveloped in Mr. Carson's large hand. They stood facing one another in the moonlight, breathless from exertion.

Mrs. Hughes smiled up at Mr. Carson, enjoying this rare view of him rumpled and tousled; she found him terribly appealing when the natural curl in his hair escaped the restraint of whatever it was he used to slick it down. He was always handsome to her, but something about those curls was especially charming.

Mr. Carson smiled back at her. Her hair was in total disarray, but her eyes shone, her merriment and enjoyment obvious. He tried not to notice the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she said softly. "I can't remember the last time I had so much fun. What a shame we can't play moonlight cricket more often."

Mr. Carson smiled. "I'm glad it was entertaining for you." He did not let go of her hand; the ball dropped to the ground and he stepped closer. With his free hand he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Mrs. Hughes assessed the damage to her hairstyle with the hand that was not holding tightly to his.

"Oh, dear." She smiled ruefully. "What do I look like?"

"You look very pretty," Mr. Carson replied simply.

"Surely not."

"Oh, most definitely pretty," he insisted. "Bewitching, in fact."

"Well, thank you," Mrs. Hughes replied, looking at him curiously.

They stood for a little longer in silence, gazing into each other's eyes. "Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson finally said. "May I kiss you?"

Mrs. Hughes was surprised, but by no means displeased by his suggestion. "You may," she breathed.

Mr. Carson let go of her hand and grasped her hips, pulling her gently closer. Mrs. Hughes wasn't quite sure what to do with her hands, but in the end she rested them on his chest. He bent down and touched his lips lightly to hers. She stood on her toes to press her lips more firmly to his and he pulled her tight against him, trapping her arms between them. She sighed and Mr. Carson deepened the kiss.

Mr. Carson had at first felt like he was in control of this kiss, this next step since they had walked into the sea holding hands. It was usually she who nudged and pushed him reluctantly into the future, but_ he_ had asked_ her_ for a kiss. Now, standing out on the lawn with her in his arms, he did not feel so much in control of the situation. However, he had thought a great deal about this moment and, while he had not known it would occur as they both stood disheveled on an impromptu moonlight cricket pitch, he was finally ready to be carried away. Mrs. Hughes's moment of control had come after he had asked permission to kiss her and passed as soon as she had said that he could. After that she was floating on a cloud of emotion and unexpected physical sensation. With a little effort she freed her hands and slid them up over his shoulders. They kissed for a long while, the cricket and the setting completely forgotten. When they broke apart, Mrs. Hughes began to laugh and Mr. Carson joined her. Neither had to explain to the other the reason for their joyful laughter. They had just spent as carefree a half hour as either of them had experienced in years, and they had finally shared their first kiss.

"I suppose we ought to be getting back now." Mr. Carson was reluctant to let go of this magical evening.

"Yes, we must," Mrs. Hughes agreed. They turned toward the house, now holding hands, but upon taking her first step toward the house, she groaned. "I don't think I ought to have attempted to play cricket in these shoes," she lamented. "My feet are protesting."

"Oh dear," Mr. Carson commented. "Lean on me and perhaps that will make walking a little less uncomfortable."

"Perhaps it will. But even if it doesn't, I won't mind."

Mr. Carson smiled and started back with Mrs. Hughes, walking slowly to keep pace with her limping steps. "I love you, you know," he remarked conversationally.

"I love you, too," she replied as they made their slow way to the servants' entrance.

"I've something to ask you tomorrow, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson told her.

"Why not ask me now?"

He shook his head. "Not when your feet are sore and we're both tired and ought to be sleeping. I'll come to your sitting room tomorrow night for a little sherry and I'll ask you properly."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "Very well. I'll be sure to practice answering you properly."

"You do that, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Carson paused to kiss the top of her head and then they continued through the yard and into the house, where they climbed their respective staircases to their separate rooms. They both fell asleep and dreamed of a little cottage between the house and the village, with a tidy garden, a comfortable settee, and an electric toaster in the kitchen.

_The end._

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	5. Faith

**Faith: a story about one character explaining an aspect of their religious or moral philosophy to the other.**

**This one may be a bit out of character, but a prompt is a prompt. Hope you enjoy!**

Mr. Carson watched sympathetically as Mrs. Hughes paced his pantry, wringing her hands in distress and frustration. It was late at night and they were the only two still awake. Mr. Carson sipped his tea; Mrs. Hughes's empty cup sat untouched on the tray.

"Mrs. Hughes, won't you please sit down?" he prompted at last. "I know you're upset, but try to relax a little."

"Relax?" She scoffed. "Relax, when my nephew is about to face the guns in France?"

"I will listen to everything you need to say," Mr. Carson said gently. "But sit. Please."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "All right." She sat down facing him, but she did not take up her cup or cease her fidgeting. "Mr. Carson, what is this war really for?" she wanted to know.

"I don't think there's an easy answer to that question, Mrs. Hughes."

"There isn't _any_ answer, in my opinion," she remarked angrily.

"You may be right," Mr. Carson sighed.

"We're lucky William's not been called yet, and from what I hear, Thomas is at the front but still alive. But what of all the boys in the village who've already been lost? When will it all end?"

Mr. Carson didn't answer, but poured a cup of tea for Mrs. Hughes. Once he had added sugar and milk he handed it to her.

"Thank you," she murmured, taking a sip.

"We don't always understand why things happen," Mr. Carson commented. "They just happen, and we have to face them with as good a grace as we can muster."

"That's very comforting, Reverend Carson," Mrs. Hughes muttered darkly.

"I don't think there is much I could say that would comfort you, Mrs. Hughes. I _am_ sorry your nephew has to go to France. I wish him well."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." Mrs. Hughes sighed heavily. "The truth is that I see bad things happening to good people all the time and I can't make sense of it. It's just about put me off going to church. But I daresay you wouldn't approve of that, Mr. Carson."

"You might be surprised," he replied, a slight smile on his face.

Mrs. Hughes raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I was an angry young man once, Mrs. Hughes."

She laughed humorlessly. "Just as I am now an angry old woman."

Mr. Carson shook his head. "Not old, Mrs. Hughes," he argued. "Never old."

She smiled at him. "Thank you for that, Mr. Carson." She took a sip of her tea. "Tell me about this 'angry young man.'"

He sipped his tea, gathering his thoughts before he began. "My parents were good people, Mrs. Hughes. They worked hard and were good, kind, generous people."

"I wish I could have known them," Mrs. Hughes remarked softly.

"They would have loved you," Mr. Carson told her. "And I'm sure you would have loved them as well. Everyone did. But when I was fifteen or sixteen it seemed like everything suddenly went wrong for them. My mother fell ill soon after I entered service. I had a sister, but she was ten years my junior, not old enough to care for my mother. Their friends and neighbors helped my father, but she sometimes needed more help than the community could give and my father missed a great deal of work. He eventually lost his job at the tailor's shop. My mother suffered terribly for a long time before she finally succumbed to her illness. My father could only do odd jobs and when my mother died, he was in debt. I sent every penny I could home, but it wasn't enough. It would have been debtor's prison for him, but he and my sister both took the scarlet fever and died."

"Oh, Mr. Carson, I _am_ sorry." Mrs. Hughes's look of sympathy was comforting to Mr. Carson. She did not pity him. She knew the pain of losing loved ones, she understood what he had suffered, and she cared about his sorrows, as friends do.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he said quietly. "I told you that everyone loved my parents, and that was part of what made me angry. They were kind and selfless people, who believed that there was a reason for their suffering. They never lost their faith, no matter how terrible life became. I felt sorry for myself, it's true, but mostly I was angry at a God who would let all of those things happen to such good and faithful people."

"What did you do then?" she wanted to know.

"That's when I left service for the music halls. I stopped going to church. I put away my Bible and my prayer book. I wasn't even sure He was up there. I'm glad to say that I didn't turn to a life of complete dissipation. I was angry at God, but I didn't betray myself by turning to strong drink or loose women for comfort. I was rather a vain man, unfortunately. The applause went to my head and I believed that I was in control of everything. It didn't last forever, though. The Cheerful Charlies' popularity waned and then I was betrayed by people I thought were on my side. I had nothing, not even respectability. I was lucky to find another post as a footman."

"Was that at Downton?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"No, but nearby. I moved to Downton a few years later."

"And the angry young man?"

"I stayed angry for a time, but my anger turned inward. I felt I had disgraced myself and my family. After about six months of self-loathing, I looked around and gradually began to enjoy my life again. I liked my colleagues. I was respectable again. I got out my prayer book and my Bible. I started reading again and I started listening again."

"And what did you hear?" Mrs. Hughes wondered.

"That I was lucky. I'd gotten a second chance, even though I didn't really deserve one."

"Mr. Carson, I'm sure you weren't so undeserving as you think, even if you were angry for a time."

"No, Mrs. Hughes," he insisted. "I didn't deserve that second chance, but I got one all the same. I'm not a great man. Maybe not even a good one. But I _am_ a thankful man." Mr. Carson looked up to find Mrs. Hughes smiling at him. He met her eyes steadily.

"Well, I won't quarrel with you, Mr. Carson," she replied. "But I am glad you told me your story. It makes me feel a little more thankful myself."

"I have a great many things to be thankful for," he told her, still not breaking her gaze. He hoped that she would somehow understand from his eyes what he could not say out loud - that she was one of the things in life for which he was most thankful.

"As do I," she answered, a similar hope in her heart.

_The end._

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	6. Greetings

**Greetings: a story about how our characters met each other.**

_Dear Mr. Carson,_

_Thank you for your notice about the family's imminent return to Downton Abbey. The house will be ready and, I believe, a little better than it was when you left. I've taken on a new head housemaid and over the last month she has more than proven her worth. I believe she will meet even your exacting standards. Her arrival is a great relief to me. I'm getting on, Mr. Carson, and I have watched head housemaids come and go, hoping that I might find one capable of taking my place when I retire. It will be her ladyship's decision, of course, but I would like to be able to recommend with confidence a woman whom I have trained myself. My standards, as you know, are very nearly as exacting as yours, however, and though many young women have served very capably as head housemaids, until now I have not found one who I thought could be an effective housekeeper. I look forward to introducing her to you when you are back at Downton next week. She may very well be your companion for several decades to come._

_Sincerely,_

_C. Rivers_

#####

Elsie knocked on the open door of the housekeeper's sitting room. "You wanted to see me, Mrs. Rivers?"

"Yes, come in, Elsie." Mrs. Rivers rose from her chair.

Elsie entered the room and waited obediently.

"You will meet Mr. Carson for the first time on Wednesday, when he returns with the family."

"I have heard much of Mr. Carson," Elsie said.

"I wouldn't mind most of what the others say," Mrs. Rivers remarked with a smile. "Mr. Carson can be a strict disciplinarian, but he's a fair man."

"I suspected as much, but was withholding judgment until I saw him for myself."

Mrs. Rivers nodded her approval. "Very good, Elsie. Now I want you on your best behavior when I call for you on Wednesday to make the introduction. Mr. Carson and I are both perfectionists, you see, and we have a sort of friendly competition between us. I won't have him finding fault with someone I've taken on in his absence."

"I see," Elsie replied, trying to hide her smile. "So I'm to show him that you haven't been idle or blameworthy while he's been away."

"Yes, exactly."

"Is there anything in particular about me that you think me might find fault with?" Elsie asked, her eyes dancing. "I'd like to be prepared."

Mrs. Rivers looked just as severe as always, but her eyes were merry. "Just be who you are, Elsie. I know he won't be able to intimidate you like he does some of the others and in the end, he'll respect that."

Elsie nodded. "I believe I understand you. Never impertinent, but never weak-willed."

Now Mrs. Rivers actually laughed. "Elsie, dear, you're a woman after my own heart. Now be off with you. I'll see you at tea."

"Yes, Mrs. Rivers." Elsie smiled and then disappeared down the corridor and returned to her work.

#####

Elsie made her way downstairs to Mrs. Rivers's sitting room. She had received her summons to be introduced to Mr. Carson. She had seen him at a distance as he supervised the family's return. He was a tall man with a resonant voice and she could see that he used both of those traits to his advantage when it came to commanding his staff. Elsie thought she could understand why some found him intimidating. She would judge for herself when she met him. Her heels clicked on the hard floor and when she arrived at the housekeeper's sitting room, she came to a stop just outside the door. Mrs. Rivers and Mr. Carson were talking, but the housekeeper turned from their conversation when Elsie arrived.

"Do come in, Elsie," she beckoned. Elsie came to stand at her superior's side. "Mr. Carson, this is Elsie Hughes, our new head housemaid."

Mr. Carson nodded in greeting. "Welcome to Downton Abbey."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Carson," Elsie replied.

The butler frowned and turned to Mrs. Rivers. "You didn't tell me she was a Scot."

Mrs. Rivers was exasperated. "What is so troublesome about that? I daresay a Yorkshireman like you has got at least one ancestor from Scotland. I've got a Scottish grandmother and an Irish grandmother and I'm not ashamed to say it."

Elsie watched their exchange with interest. "That may be so, but this is an English house. We've never had Scottish housemaid," Mr. Carson argued.

Mrs. Rivers sighed. "You really are impossible, Mr. Carson. Have you forgotten that the mistress of this English house is an American? How can you serve her ladyship with pride and yet object to a Scotswoman on your staff?"

"Very well," he admitted. "I accept your point. I assume she has acquitted herself well."

"Of course she has, Mr. Carson. Would I have kept her on this long if she hadn't? What sort of housekeeper do you take me for?"

Elsie rather enjoyed witnessing this friendly bickering. Mr. Carson clearly took the issue more seriously than Mrs. Rivers did, but there was no hostility between them. Finally she spoke up.

"If it is my accent that offends you, Mr. Carson, I assure you that with practice it can be moderated," Elsie asserted. "I will never be taken for English, but you may be sure the family will never have difficulty understanding me."

Mr. Carson looked a little sheepish. "I am not offended by you or your accent, Elsie," he told her. "I am sorry if it seemed that way. I trust Mrs. Rivers to choose and train her staff well; I withdraw my objection."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Elsie answered.

He cleared his throat. "I hope you are settling in well."

"Yes, quite well. I look forward to serving the Crawleys now that they have returned from London."

Mr. Carson's chest puffed with pride. "Good. I am glad. The Crawleys are a noble family and to serve them is an honor."

"I am sure you are right, Mr. Carson," Elsie replied solemnly.

"Thank you, Elsie," Mrs. Rivers remarked. "You are dismissed."

Elsie nodded to both of them and left the room, her mind working. She had an inkling that Mrs. Rivers had plans to recommend her to Lady Grantham as her replacement when she retired in a few years. It was an exciting prospect. To become housekeeper of such a grand house as Downton Abbey before she reached forty years of age would be something, indeed! Elsie had not been long at at Downton, but she felt more and more that she had done right in refusing Joe's offer of making her Mrs. Burns, whatever her family might say. He was a nice man, but she did not love him, or at least not enough to give up this chance at independence. Not many women, of any class, had the opportunity to rise to a higher position in life through her own hard work and merit. She would not be defined as someone's wife, but by her chosen profession and how well she did at it.

Elsie also found Mr. Carson to be a very interesting man. He frowned and blustered, but she could see that he was a good man. She had much more to learn about him than what she had gleaned in a very few minutes with him, but she liked him, in spite of his initial objection to her nationality. If Elsie were made housekeeper, she and Mr. Carson would be much thrown together, and it seemed likely that they would be well-suited to run the house together. She could see, almost at first glance, that there was no guile in him. They would perhaps not always agree, but he would never wish her harm. Elsie smiled with satisfaction at thoughts of her future. Yes, she had certainly done right to refuse Joe's proposal. She wished him all the luck in the world, but her life was here now. Elsie would not take anything for granted, but as she returned to her work, she did allow herself to imagine the jingle of keys at her hip with each step she took along the gallery.

_The end._

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	7. Health

**Second chapter of the day/night. Don't let the prompt scare you. :-)**

**Health: a story where the health of one character is called into question.**

"Just come up and see her for a few minutes," Mrs. Patmore pleaded. "Please."

"I don't think it would be proper, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson answered.

The cook was nearly in tears. "How proper will it be if she dies and you've refused to see her?"

Mr. Carson frowned. "What do you mean 'if she dies'? Is she really that ill?"

"Probably not," Mrs. Patmore admitted. "But she is delirious and I can't seem to calm her. Perhaps you might have better luck. I'll be your chaperone, Mr. Carson, if you're so concerned about propriety."

Mr. Carson wasn't comfortable with the idea of going into Mrs. Hughes's room under any circumstances, but surely no one would consider it scandalous in this situation. He nodded and accompanied Mrs. Patmore up the maids' staircase and followed her into the housekeeper's room. When they arrived, Mrs. Hughes had kicked off her sheet and blanket and her nightgown was pulled up to her knees. Mr. Carson quickly turned away, embarrassed, but Mrs. Patmore set everything to rights.

"Come here, Mr. Carson," she said, gesturing toward a chair placed near the head of the bed. "I'll be sitting right over there." The cook's chair was against the wall near the door. She sat down and pointed again to the chair by the bed. He took a seat and glanced uncomfortably at Mrs. Hughes.

"What should I do?" he whispered to Mrs. Patmore.

"Why don't you try talking to her?"

"What should I say?" Mr. Carson asked.

"It doesn't matter," Mrs. Patmore answered, rolling her eyes. "Soothing things. Just so she hears your voice."

Mr. Carson was still very uncertain, but he tried to do as the cook suggested. "Hello, Mrs. Hughes," he greeted her stiffly. "It's Mr. Carson. I'm sorry you're ill." His voice softened a little. "Everyone is sorry that you're ill. They all ask about you downstairs. I'm sure you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Mrs. Hughes's brow crinkled and she started talking. Mr. Carson couldn't understand most of what she said, though occasionally something coherent broke through. "Don't forget to put the Sauterne on ice, Mr. Carson," she mumbled.

Mr. Carson looked at the cook questioningly. "What do I do, Mrs. Patmore? Should I answer?"

"I don't think it matters. Just keep talking," she replied. "I think it's helping. And try holding her hand. Poor lamb. She's miserable."

Mr. Carson took the housekeeper's hand hesitantly, but once he had done so, he was able to relax a little, and he started talking again. He told her stories that his mother had told him when he was a child. Mrs. Hughes murmured something occasionally – sometimes his name and sometimes other things. He glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. Patmore and found her sound asleep, her head leaning back against the wall.

"I hope you're well again soon, Mrs. Hughes," he murmured. "We all miss you downstairs, me most of all. Nothing's quite right when you're not well. I miss seeing you at the table every morning." Mr. Carson's voice sunk to a whisper, and he stroked her hand with his thumb. "You are beautiful, you know. So very beautiful. You must get well and come back downstairs to me. I love you and I miss you." He watched Mrs. Hughes carefully and he could see that she was finally calming. A few minutes later, she was resting quietly. She looked so different when her face was in repose than when it was animated, but he thought her just as beautiful as always. He turned again to see if Mrs. Patmore was still sleeping, but she had gone. Mr. Carson stayed a little while longer and once he felt sure that Mrs. Hughes was sleeping peacefully, he went to his own room, got into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

#####

Several mornings later, Mrs. Hughes appeared at the breakfast table. She was a little paler than usual, but otherwise she seemed her usual energetic self.

"Welcome back, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson greeted her. "I'm glad to see you well." He was on pins and needles. He wondered if she had heard everything he said while he sat at her bedside. Part of him hoped she had, though he had never planned to tell her how he felt. Mr. Carson feared what might happen if she knew, but a small, reckless part of him wanted to know if his feelings for her might be reciprocated.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she answered. Then she nodded toward Mrs. Patmore, who stood beside her. "Mrs. Patmore tells me you came to see me while I was delirious and that you got me to calm down. I'm very grateful."

"You don't remember?" he asked, his heart pounding

"No," she replied. "But I thank you all the same."

Mr. Carson quietly breathed a sigh of relief. They could continue as they were now, as though he had never confessed to her that he loved her. A glance at Mrs. Patmore, however, rattled him anew. While Mrs. Hughes had started to eat her breakfast, the cook looked daggers at Mr. Carson. _She must have been there. She must have heard._ Mr. Carson wondered how long he could continue to keep his secret from the housekeeper. He suspected Mrs. Patmore might punish him until he told Mrs. Hughes again, when she was awake and lucid, that she had stolen his heart. He turned his eyes back to Mrs. Hughes, watching her sip her tea. Between the dark disapprobation of one woman and the innocent beauty of the other, Mr. Carson had a feeling he would not last much longer.

_The end._

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


	8. Investigation

**Investigation: a story where one character seeks to find something out about the other.**

**This is a follow-up to **_**Daydreams**_**. It provides some resolution to the pain Mrs. Hughes was suffering in that story. Both of them are trying to find things out about each other. Hope you enjoy.**

At Lord Grantham's request, Mr. Carson had come to Downton to impart some of his knowledge of wine to Mr. Jameson, who was still having some difficulty with that part of the job. Mr. Carson had almost made up his mind to leave Haxby, to find work where he could, but his first few steps in the village he had called home until nine months ago decided him. Haxby was no home to him. On top of seeing Lady Mary wretched, he was terribly unhappy himself. He slept very little and the rest of his life stretched out before him, a seemingly endless wasteland. Mr. Carson did not wish for death, but nor did he fear it.

Mr. Carson had thought he would be able to protect Lady Mary, but it was a task beyond his abilities and he could not continue to work for a man who treated his wife in such a manner. Mr. Carson was the butler and as such he knew almost everything that went on in the house. Sir Richard was not violent, unfaithful, or a drunkard. Had her husband taken a mistress, Lady Mary would have held her head high and carried on, but Sir Richard's cruelty was quiet and subtle, and Mr. Carson despaired as he watched her becoming a shadow of her former self. His presence was no help to her; in fact, Sir Richard sometimes used the butler's affection for Lady Mary against her. The best Mr. Carson could hope was that she would summon up the strength to leave Haxby and return to the bosom of her parents. It would be a blow to her pride, but she might still have some chance of recovering her spark and spirit, before her husband drove it out of her completely.

When he stepped into the yard with his small valise, Mr. Carson's senses were assaulted by sights, sounds, and smells of Downton Abbey. How had he ever left this place? He went inside to look for Mr. Jameson. When Mr. Carson did not find him in the pantry, he set down his things and went in search of him. Not being dressed in livery, he felt a little out of place, but he did enjoy this chance to observe quietly. He stood near the bottom of the stairs and watched everyone at work.

Mrs. Patmore was shouting in the kitchen and several hall boys rushed back and forth in front of him. He was about to move toward the kitchen, when Mrs. Hughes appeared in the corridor, studying a piece of paper in her hand. Mr. Carson's breath stilled in his body; she looked dreadful. He hadn't known in what detail her face was so familiar, so dear to him, until he saw her so altered, and suddenly he realized he could have named almost every line, every dimple, every shadow. She was thinner than before, her complexion bloodless, her eyes dull. She stopped for a moment just a few feet from where Mr. Carson stood and her eyes swept over him, but her face showed no sign of recognition and she made her way upstairs. He couldn't understand it; she had looked right at him and not spoken a word, though it had been a long time since they had last met.

As Mr. Carson worked alongside Mr. Jameson that day, it happened several times more. Mrs. Hughes seemed to see him, but did not greet him or speak to him. Mr. Carson was bewildered, and he finally spoke of it to the other butler as they sat drinking a glass of wine together that evening.

Mr. Jameson looked a little uneasy as he tried to form an answer to Mr. Carson's question about the housekeeper's strange behavior. "You know her better than I do," he began. "But I occasionally wonder about her sharpness of mind. She does her job very well, never misses a detail, but from time to time she comes to this pantry looking for you."

"Looking for _me_?" Mr. Carson was taken aback.

"She opens the door and begins speaking to you. 'Mr. Carson did you remember-' and then she sees that I am not Mr. Carson and hurries away."

"I don't know what to say." Mr. Carson was trying to make sense of it all in his mind.

"It's the only time she ever smiles – when she thinks you are here. And then she realizes it is only Mr. Jameson, she retreats, embarrassed. Heartbroken, almost."

"But why would she ignore me now? I don't understand."

Mr. Jameson shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Carson."

A knock sounded at the door and the woman in question walked into the pantry. "Mr. Jameson, we should talk tomorrow about this dinner party they want for next Friday, but for now I'll say good night."

"Mrs. Hughes, I know you'll want to say hello to your former colleague, Mr. Carson." Mr. Jameson gestured to his companion.

Mrs. Hughes at last looked directly at Mr. Carson, her eyes opening wide in surprise. "Of course," she murmured. "Hello, Mr. Carson."

Mr. Carson stood and approached her, holding out his hand for her to shake. She looked apprehensive, her eyes darting back and forth from his hand to his face. At last she hesitantly reached out to shake his hand. When they touched, her eyes filled with tears. She quickly pulled back, repeated her goodnight, and left the room. Mr. Carson set down his glass and hurried after her, leaving a puzzled Mr. Jameson alone in the butler's pantry.

"Mrs. Hughes," he called softly. She turned slowly in his direction. "May I have a moment of your time?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I'd like to speak to you. Perhaps in your sitting room?" He gestured toward her door, which still stood open.

Mrs. Hughes scrutinized him for a few moments more before nodding and entering the room. Mr. Carson followed, closing the door behind him.

#####

Mr. Carson no longer slept in the butler's room, but the dearth of male servants allowed him to have a room of his own, even as a guest. He tossed and turned for a while, but at last he calmed and lay still while he pondered the evening. It was the most impulsive thing he had done in his entire life. When Mr. Carson had first laid eyes on Mrs. Hughes earlier in the day, he had realized two things; first, that she was either ill or dreadfully unhappy and second, that he loved her. He didn't know what was the matter with her, and he did not try to find out, only asked her to marry him, right there in her sitting room. It didn't matter to him what was wrong. He only knew he had to do everything he could to make her smile again. Mr. Carson was well aware that he might fail, but Mrs. Hughes had accepted him with very little hesitation, squeezing his hand lightly as he bent to kiss her cheek. She even smiled, very slightly, and he bid her good night without much more conversation. Mr. Carson's relief at her acceptance was almost overpowering. Although he couldn't explain it, before she said 'yes' he had been afraid that she might somehow slip away from him. He had her promise now, which was worth a great deal. Now he just had to make it all happen.

#####

Mrs. Hughes lay still in her bed, quietly considering what had just happened. She still was not sure it was real, but there was just one possible answer to his question, whether in life or in dreams, so she had paused only briefly before saying 'yes.' It had seemed very sudden to her; she hadn't even been aware that he was expected at Downton for a visit. She wondered how many times during the course of the day she had ignored him. In the past few months, Mr. Carson had escaped the bondage of her daydreams and begun wandering through her waking life as well. She saw him everywhere, every day, so when he had truly been there in the flesh, she had assumed it was her mind playing tricks on her, and paid him no heed. When Mr. Jameson had forced her to acknowledge Mr. Carson at last, she had thought she might cry. It seemed a cruel trick to her. But when Mr. Carson had followed her into the corridor and then into her sitting room, she began to believe he was real. He hadn't spoken much, but she could feel his warmth as he held her hand and kissed her cheek. More than that, his earnestness was obvious, in his eyes and his posture and his touch.

It was almost midnight and Mrs. Hughes felt her eyelids growing heavy. She wondered if she were coming down with a cold or influenza. She did not feel ill, but she could not remember the last time she had fallen asleep before three.

#####

Mr. Carson left the next day, promising Mrs. Hughes he would write once he had made arrangements and then they could both give notice and be married. He was as good as his word, writing every day, even when he did not yet have news. He told her how happy she was making him. He related amusing anecdotes from his daily life. And when he had found employment and a small flat with a pretty parlor in Ripon, and then made an appointment at the Register Office for just over two weeks later, he wrote her a long letter, detailing all of the arrangements and telling her again just how happy they were going to be together.

Mrs. Hughes was still afraid to believe it completely, but every day she felt a little more herself than she had the day before. She no longer suffered from insomnia and her appetite returned. Mr. Carson's sweet letters seemed proof on paper that her daydreams were going to come true, but when he wrote to tell her that the final arrangements had been made, she had still not told a soul at Downton of their understanding. Today was the day that she would give her notice to Lady Grantham. Mrs. Hughes could not shake the anxiety she felt that it somehow wasn't real, and she considered taking the letter to Mrs. Patmore and asking her to read it and confirm that it said what she thought it said. In the end, however, she could not bring herself to do that. She put the letter in her pocket and made her way up the stairs for her meeting with the countess. She made up her mind that if she went to Ripon and Mr. Carson never came for her, she would get on the first train she could find to Lytham St Annes. If she were _that_ deluded, it seemed safer that she seek shelter with her sister rather than employment elsewhere.

It was difficult for Mrs. Hughes to reply to Lady Grantham's queries about why she was leaving Downton, but she spoke of her planned marriage to Mr. Carson as though she were certain of it. She was now officially embarking on what could be a dream come true or a waking nightmare. After she gave her notice upstairs, she called Mr. Jameson and Mrs. Patmore into her sitting room to inform them that she was leaving to be married to Mr. Carson. Mr. Jameson politely congratulated her, but Mrs. Patmore, though at first a little peeved that Lady Grantham had been the first to know, embraced her friend and wished her every possible happiness. Mrs. Hughes promised to invite the cook for tea sometime soon.

#####

The wedding day came. Mrs. Hughes ate breakfast at the house and after a few quiet goodbyes she started walking toward the village. She had never been more nervous in her life. She was to ride the bus from Downton to Ripon and meet Mr. Carson at the Register Office. She was dressed in her Sunday clothes and had all of her belongings in the bag she carried. Today she would know for certain if she was on the road to a happy retirement or going slowly mad.

Mrs. Hughes had taken this bus many times and she greeted a few villagers who passed her as she waited. It was a beautiful day and everyone seemed cheerful. Mrs. Hughes allowed herself to smile and relaxed a little, but she was startled by a deep voice from just behind her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson greeted her.

"Mr. Carson!" she exclaimed. "I did not expect to see you here."

He offered his arm and she took it. "I was going to meet you when the bus dropped you in Ripon so we could walk together, but I was awake so early I decided to meet you in Downton and ride with you to Ripon."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "Thank you."

The bus arrived and they climbed aboard. Mrs. Hughes noticed that Mr. Carson seemed nervous himself, but her doubts were really beginning to fall away. He held her hand as they sat shoulder to shoulder and she frequently caught him glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking. Mrs. Hughes could see that he was nervous, but he seemed happy as well. Now that she was allowing herself to believe that she was truly about to be married to Mr. Carson, she realized that she had never asked herself why. In her daydreams, he always married her because he was madly in love with her. What were the real Mr. Carson's reasons? He had never told her that he loved her, although it seemed clear that he felt some affection for her. In this moment, however, Mrs. Hughes was not terribly concerned with his reasons. She would marry him first and ask him later.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat and Mrs. Hughes looked up at him. "Mrs. Hughes, would it be all right… May I call you Elsie?"

She blushed and smiled. "Of course," she murmured.

Mr. Carson returned her smile. He wanted to tell her she was lovely, but he was afraid of making her nervous. He knew that Elsie Hughes sat beside him, but that something had happened to her in the time he had been away from Downton; he had never known her to be so quiet and spiritless. He was determined to find the real Elsie, to bring back her sparkle, and to tell her everything that was in his heart. He left that last concern for another day, however. He would marry her first and tell her later.

#####

A few hours later, Mr. Carson was showing his new bride their flat in Ripon. It was small, but it was comfortable and had a nice view out the front window and room for a tiny kitchen garden in the back if Mrs. Carson decided she would like one. She smiled and made quiet sounds of approval and delight as he pointed out the little details of the flat and its furnishings. She asked if he would like some tea. He said he would, and she went to the kitchen.

Mrs. Carson opened and inspected the cabinets as she waited for the water to boil. Mr. Carson had clearly thought of everything – the kitchen was spotless and stocked with all of the necessary items. He must have had a maid in to set things up. She was grateful for Mr. Carson's thoughtfulness. When the tea was ready, Mrs. Carson brought the tray into the small parlor where her husband was waiting. She knew how he liked his tea, so she prepared a cup for him, and then one for herself, and sat down beside him on the settee. They talked about the lovely weather, about their little flat, and about Mr. Carson's new job. Mrs. Carson unpacked her things, placing some of her knickknacks in the parlor. They managed to while away the afternoon without saying anything very important, but neither bride nor groom had any complaint about this. Mr. Carson was simply happy to be in the same room with her and to glance occasionally at the ring he had just put on her finger. Mrs. Carson was now almost fully convinced that this was real.

#####

After dinner Mr. Carson cleared up the dishes while his wife got ready for bed. After a half hour, he followed and put on his own pajamas and climbed into bed. He turned to Mrs. Carson and saw that she was looking back at him, her small smile evident in the lamplight. Mr. Carson's heart was gladdened by the sight. He had seen her begin to brighten, ever so slightly, as the day went on, and he felt sure now that she would come back to him. He took her hand and kissed it. They were both very still, each watching the other in wonder. At last Mr. Carson leaned over and kissed his wife's lips gently, before moving to lie on his back. He kept hold of her hand as he turned off the lamp.

"Good night, my dear," he murmured.

"Good night, Charles," she answered.

#####

Mrs. Carson woke with a start at around three o'clock. Her fingers were still tangled with Mr. Carson's on the bed between them. She slid her hand free and sat up on the side of the bed. She felt as though she had just awakened from a very long sleep. She left the bedroom and walked around the darkened flat. In the kitchen, she laid her hand on the cool kettle and smiled. She ran her hands over the countertop and opened the cabinets. In the parlor, she sat down on the settee and her smile grew. She sat on the armchair; it smelled like _him_. Mrs. Carson's tears now flowed freely and she rushed back into the bedroom. She stood beside the bed, looking down at her husband. She watched him for a few minutes as he slept, but he somehow felt her eyes on him and awoke suddenly.

"What is it? Elsie? What's wrong?" he wanted to know.

Mrs. Carson reached out with one hand and caressed his face. She let her fingers run along his forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. "You're here," she whispered, allowing her other hand to smooth his hair gently away from his face. "You're really here."

It was dark, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. "Yes, I'm here." Her hands stilled on his face. "Let me turn the lamp on, Elsie."

She didn't answer right away, but when she did, Mr. Carson was taken by surprise. "Why did you never write?" she asked simply.

He didn't have to ask what she meant. "It seemed… presumptuous."

"More presumptuous than writing me from London every Season?"

"I didn't know what to write," Mr. Carson admitted. "I sat down and tried, but all that came to mind were things like 'Dear Mrs. Hughes, I miss you dreadfully. Dear Mrs. Hughes, it pains me to be without you. Dear Mrs. Hughes, I wish I had never left you.' I couldn't write those things to you. The longer I went without writing, the more ashamed I felt, and the more ashamed I felt, the more impossible it became to write. I'm sorry. I love you, but I know I've hurt you." He waited for her to respond.

"Thank you for explaining," she replied softly. Mrs. Carson's hands moved again, her fingers threading through his hair, her thumb brushing over his cheek. "You love me?" she murmured.

Mr. Carson nodded. "I love you."

Mrs. Carson took a shaking breath. "I love you, too." Her fingers stilled once more. Mr. Carson sat up suddenly on the side of the bed and her hands fell away from him. He quickly turned on the lamp, stood up, and pulled her into his arms.

"Elsie, I've missed you so," he whispered. "Won't you come back to me?"

She was crying into his chest and couldn't speak immediately, but finally she replied, "I will, Charles. I'm here now. I will be myself again. Soon, I believe." She stepped back so she could look him in the eyes. Mr. Carson saw fear, sorrow, and determination in her blue eyes. He wondered what she might be thinking. "Charles, don't you _ever_ leave me again. Not ever," Mrs. Carson commanded, quiet but fierce.

Mr. Carson met her gaze solemnly. He knew how important this moment was. "Never, Elsie. I promise," he told her firmly, pulling her close again. She wrapped her arms around his middle. She sniffled a bit, but her weeping had subsided.

"I'm tired, Charles," she whispered.

"Of course you are," he replied. "Let's get you back to bed." Mr. Carson led his wife around to her side of the bed so she could easily climb in. He tucked her in very carefully and sat on the edge of the bed watching her eyelids grow heavy. "I love you, Elsie. Sweet dreams." He bent down and kissed her before making his way back to his own side of the bed, getting under the covers, and turning out the lamp. Between the sheets, his hand moved cautiously toward the middle of the bed and he was glad to find her hand doing the same. He entwined his fingers with hers and fell asleep with a smile on his face. A long, dark night was over and the new day that dawned was full of possibilities.

_The end._

**I had some difficulty with this, as I didn't like the idea of Elsie Hughes being completely changed in such a negative way simply because of Mr. Carson's absence. I was worried that it made it seem like she needs a man to be happy. But I've convinced myself it's not so bad. It's not that she needs any man to be happy. She needs this particular one. If she were married to Mr. Carson and he left her for some reason, it would be understandable that she might find it really difficult to deal with the situation. In this scenario they are not married, but her feelings for him are like a wife's for her husband. However, she doesn't have any outlet for her feelings of loss or loneliness since he is **_**not **_**her husband. This is what she is struggling with and what makes her so miserable.**

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


	9. Jests

**Jests: a story where one character teases the other.**

**A bit of ooc fun. Hope you enjoy!**

Mr. Carson knocked on the door of Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. She looked up from her desk and smiled. He bore a tray with a delicate decanter of sherry and two glasses.

"Am I glad to see you!" she greeted him. "It's been a day, Mr. Carson, I can tell you. I might trouble you for a second glass tonight."

"Of course," he agreed. "But perhaps you'll indulge me in a whim before we drink our sherry."

Mrs. Hughes raised her eyebrows, curious. "And what whim is that?"

"I'd like to go for a walk with you."

"Tonight? Are you sure?"

Mr. Carson nodded cheerfully. "Yes, tonight."

"But it rained all day, Mr. Carson. You'll get your trousers wet and I'll get my stockings wet." Her eyes held an amused challenge.

He met her challenge. "If we get them wet, we'll dry them."

"You don't think we'll catch a chill, walking in the wet grass?" she suggested.

"Come on," he needled. "I dare you."

"Very well," she agreed. "There's no time like the present." Mrs. Hughes walked out of her sitting room and down the corridor toward the servants' entrance; Mr. Carson hurried to catch up with her.

When they stepped outside, the ground was very wet, though the rain had stopped at least an hour earlier. Mrs. Hughes felt the mud from the yard splashing her feet and ankles, but she said nothing. She knew Mr. Carson must be getting at something and she would not back down from his challenge. When they reached the lawn, he held out his hand to her. "You can hold my hand if you like, so you won't slip on the wet grass."

Mrs. Hughes smiled and took his hand. "I'd like that very much."

"I've been thinking about something very important lately, Mrs. Hughes."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"About something you said. That you and I can afford to live a little."

"I see," she remarked. "And do you have plans to live a little, Mr. Carson?"

"I do," he replied. "But I'm not sure whether you will like my plans."

"Does it matter?" Mrs. Hughes asked. "As long as you think you will enjoy yourself, what difference does it make what I think?"

"It matters a lot," he answered. "If the woman I love loves me, I think living a little will be just about the most enjoyable thing I could do."

Her breath hitched. "You're talking in riddles now, Mr. Carson," she pointed out, a little breathless.

"Yes, I suppose I am. I'll keep trying to say it properly if you can bear to keep listening to this poor fool who's gotten his trousers wet."

"I won't have any of that, Mr. Carson," she admonished him. "You've gotten your trousers wet, but please don't call yourself a fool." Her voice softened. "I hope you know how far that is from my opinion of you."

"You're very flattering," Mr. Carson teased. "When you talk like that you make me want to check the looking glass to see that my hair's tidy."

Mrs. Hughes laughed quietly. "There's no need. It's quite tidy. Now let's get back to those plans you were trying to tell me about. You wanted to explain why it's important that I approve of how you plan to live a little. Something about a woman who loves you?"

"Mrs. Hughes, if that's your way of asking me to marry you, I think your delivery could use some work," Mr. Carson commented offhandedly. "I would, however, give you credit for sincerity."

Mrs. Hughes was speechless.

"If you'd like to try again, I am happy to listen, but my answer will be the same no matter how you phrase it." Mr. Carson was greatly enjoying the sight of Mrs. Hughes looking flustered in the waning light of the moon. She still hadn't spoken, but he knew that would not last forever, so he hurried to take advantage of her silence. He cleared his throat dramatically before speaking. "Mrs. Hughes, I am honored and gratified by your proposal. Yes, I will marry you. I was beginning to think you would never ask!"

At this, Mrs. Hughes laughed out loud. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Carson."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hughes. I am a patient man. But I suppose we ought to be getting back inside now. Our sherry awaits." He started to lead her by the hand back to the house, but Mrs. Hughes did not follow. "What is it?" he asked, turning back to her.

"My proposal would be pretty feeble if I didn't kiss you," she told him, and before he could answer, she grasped the lapels of his tailcoat and pulled him down for a searing kiss.

"Mmmm," he murmured in her ear. "Your proposal is improving by leaps and bounds, Mrs. Hughes."

"I love you, you daft man."

"Better and better," he rumbled. "I love you, too."

"Just one more kiss should settle things, don't you think?" Mrs. Hughes asked, her tone businesslike, but her eyes merry.

Mr. Carson was happy to comply with her request.

_The end._

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few minutes.**


	10. Awake

**This is the second chapter I've posted today.**

_**WARNING: ANGST AND MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH**_

**I've chosen to put the "A" prompt in the middle of the alphabet for a specific reason. If I posted this as the first chapter, it would be more difficult for readers and re-readers to skip this chapter of the collection if they're not interested in reading it. I've also purposefully placed it in between two fluffy chapters. The "K" prompt is already written and will be posted tomorrow. I hope it will make you smile.**

**Awake: a story where one character attempts to rouse the other.**

Mr. Carson was not surprised to find Mrs. Hughes asleep at her desk. It wasn't a common sight, but when the house was particularly busy, she sometimes lost enough sleep to find herself nodding off as she stared at her ledgers in the afternoon. He entered quietly and closed the door behind him. He needed to wake her, but he knew that she wouldn't want the others to see her like this.

"Mrs. Hughes," he said softly, shaking her gently by the shoulder. She did not respond and he shook her again. "Mrs. Hughes, wake up."

Again, she made no response, and Mr. Carson felt very uneasy. _Has she fainted?_ He tried to pull her into a sitting position, but she did not wake, and her head fell forward. _No. It's impossible. She's only fainted. She's worked herself too hard and gotten ill,_ he told himself. Still, his hand went to her wrist in search of a pulse. He found nothing. _But I'm not a medical man. Perhaps the pulse is faint because of her illness. I should telephone the doctor._ He bent down so his ear was just in front of her mouth, hoping to hear or feel a breath, but there was nothing. He began to panic.

_No. _He shook her quite hard now. _ Wake up. Wake up! This isn't funny! I should have gone first. It always should have been me. How could this happen? She was fine at breakfast. Perfectly cheerful and energetic and beautiful. It can't be._ He shook her hard again._ Wake up! Come back to me!_ But she was dead. He touched her cheek. It was warm, though not very. She had not been gone long.

It was awkward holding her like this, trying to keep her upright in her chair when her body might as well have been boneless. It occurred to Mr. Carson, somewhere among the shock and disbelief and grief and regret, that her body would soon begin to stiffen. She needed to be taken to her bed, but he didn't think he could find it in himself to carry her body up that many flights of stairs. His physical strength might be sufficient, but it still seemed too much. He would lay her on the floor instead. He moved her body to lean once more on the desk and went to her cupboard, where he was grateful to find two blankets. One would be her pillow, the other would cover her. _Not that she will need it. She will never feel the cold again._ He laid these things on the floor.

Mr. Carson briefly considered asking for help, either to lay her down here or to carry her to her room, but he didn't want the others to be upset. Not yet. As soon as another person knew that she was gone, it would be real and undeniable. As long as he was alone with her like this, he could hold on to a slight hope that it was all just a nightmare, or that she would open her eyes at any moment and tease him for mistaking sleep for death. What would he have given to hear her tease him, or even for her fiercest scolding? To see anything but this cool stillness?

Mr. Carson approached the desk again, lifted Mrs. Hughes's lifeless body from her chair, and placed her gently on the floor. He rested her head on one folded blanket and covered her with the other. He sank to his knees beside her and took her hand. He knew of things like this, of healthy men and women dying suddenly before their time. A heart attack, or a stroke perhaps. Her face showed no sign of pain or distress. She had not suffered, at least. He took her hand between his and tried to speak, but he couldn't make the words come out. Instead, they rushed through his mind all at once.

_I'm so sorry, my dear. So very sorry. I love you. But I've been a foolish man. I thought I had all the time in the world with you. I was going to tell you. One day. But now you will never hear me say the words. I will mourn you as a husband would, but in silence. No one must know, for I am not your husband. But my suffering is my own doing. If I had told you, even once, there would be some relief to this pain. But you are gone now. And you never knew just how loved you were. How I cherished every moment we had together. You never knew, because I never told you. I'm so sorry, my love. So very sorry…_

Mr. Carson leaned down and, for the first and last time, gently kissed her lips, now cool and bloodless. His tears were flowing freely and he did not attempt to check them or wipe them away. Unconsciously, he began to chafe her hand between his, as though trying to warm her.

"I love you, my dearest darling. I am sorry. And I will be until I die." Mr. Carson watched her for another minute, then swallowed hard and took a deep breath to compose himself. He let her hand slip from his grasp and he stood up, straightening his tie and waistcoat. He took another deep breath and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Miss Baxter!" he called out when he saw the lady's maid just down the corridor.

She walked in his direction and could immediately see he was not well. "Mr. Carson, what's wrong?" she asked.

That low, gentle tone of hers almost destroyed what little remained of his composure. Mr. Carson ignored her question. "Miss Baxter, I need you to do something for me," he told her, his voice breaking. "It is of the utmost importance that no one enter Mrs. Hughes's sitting room without my permission. You must stand guard at the door." Miss Baxter only nodded and watched Mr. Carson make his way to his pantry.

He must compose himself. He would telephone the hospital and then Grasby's, speak to Lord Grantham, and then gather the staff to tell them the news. After that he hadn't the slightest idea how he would continue. Half of him was gone and he knew that he would never be whole again.

_The end._

**a/n: I have a hard time reading heavy angst myself, and writing it is at least as painful, if not more so. This story was written months ago, almost against my will. The word "attempt" in the prompt stuck in my mind and I started to imagine scenarios in which there was the possibility that this attempt would fail. I did not want to write it. I did not plan to write it. I tried to think of other responses to this prompt. However, the story composed itself almost in its entirety in my mind and I decided I'd better go ahead and write it down or it would just stay up there, stressing me out. I've almost decided against posting it at all, probably dozens of times, but I finally decided to go ahead with it. As another author pointed out to me, some people like angst. I've given fair warning. Special thanks to two of my fellow authors who convinced me to post this. You know who you are. And thanks to a friend who will never read this, but who told me the story of how she reacted when her husband died, very unexpectedly, right in front of her.**

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


	11. Kisses

**Kisses: a story about first kisses or last kisses or ordinary kisses or extraordinary kisses between our characters. **

Charles had kissed her many times, but what Elsie loved best was the infinite variety of his kisses.

#####

Charles asked Elsie to walk with him to the village one afternoon when they both had errands to run. Once they were out of view of the house, he took her hand without even asking and they chatted as they walked. Elsie loosened her grip on his hand as they neared the village, sure that he would want to maintain appearances in public, even though he was now more affectionate in private. Charles, however, tightened his hold on her so she couldn't pull away. Her heart had swelled with so many emotions; she knew how much meaning he attached to such a gesture. She loved him, but she also felt _his_ devotion, and she was proud to be seen with him. They separated to take care of their errands, but when they met to return to the house, Charles took her hand again. When they were alone between the house and the village, he slowed to a stop, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it, all the while looking into her wondering eyes. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and their hands finally did slide apart when they reached home. That first kiss was very precious to her, because it signaled a change. It was one of many small changes they had made together over the last few years, but this one was special, because there was no going back from it. After that they were even closer, and while it was perhaps true that Else could twist him round her little finger, Charles was learning to twist _her_ round _his_ little finger as well. She fell more deeply in love with him every day.

#####

It was Elsie's birthday and she was pleasantly surprised to receive two gifts. A handful of her colleagues - the ones who were close enough to her and had been around long enough to know the date of her birth - each contributed a little money to purchase a pretty comb for her hair. She was touched by the beautiful gift and wondered aloud when and where she would wear it, but Mrs. Patmore and Anna seemed certain that she would find some special occasion before too long. _The servants' ball,_ she told herself, although the gift almost seemed too special even for that event. Later that evening, when Mrs. Patmore had managed to shoo everyone to bed as early as possible, Elsie sat alone with Charles. She was sipping her wine when he pulled a small wrapped item from his pocket and handed it to her. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Hughes." She opened the package to find a small, illustrated book of poems by Christina Rossetti. She expressed her delight with the precious gift and they finished their wine. When they both rose to leave, however, he surprised her again. He bent and murmured once more in her ear, more deeply than before, "Happy birthday, Mrs. Hughes." And then he kissed her cheek. The moment seemed very intimate, though they had barely touched. From that day on, he repeated the gesture on her birthday and other special occasions. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Hughes." "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes." "Happy St. Valentine's Day, Mrs. Hughes." The thought occurred to her more than once that she should perhaps give him a kiss on his birthday, but she never did. Not until after the first extraordinary kiss.

#####

It was a long time coming, but when Charles found himself desperately in love with Elsie and ready to retire from service, he asked her to marry him. He was fairly certain that she loved him, too, although he wasn't sure of the depth of her feelings. When he asked her, however, his chair pulled forward so their knees were touching and her hands in his, her words and actions showed him that her feelings were just as strong as his. She smiled brilliantly and then began to laugh, which confused him until he perceived that she was happy, and overflowing with it. Realizing that she still had not spoken, she gave him her answer, that she would be delighted and proud to be his wife. He couldn't remember whether she stood first or he did, but within seconds she was in his arms and he was kissing her lips. He kissed her gently at first, then firmly, then quite passionately, and she met him with equal fervor. Each pushed and pulled the other around the room, until Elsie found herself pinned between Charles and the door of her sitting room. She couldn't have said how long they spent kissing that night, but they did at last go to their separate rooms, happy and flushed. Elsie considered that evening's kiss to be her first extraordinary kiss, though perhaps it was a series of kisses rather than just one single kiss. She supposed it did not make much difference, however. Her dream had come true and she'd been kissed like she never had before.

#####

There were dozens of people watching when Charles kissed Elsie at the front of the church, so it wasn't the same sort of extraordinary as many of the kisses they'd shared since their engagement. But it was a one-of-a-kind kiss; there would never be another wedding kiss. It was a gentle kiss, meant for the occasion and the audience, but Elsie could feel an undercurrent of urgency, a hint of what was to come once they had celebrated with their friends and were behind closed doors. It looked endearingly innocent to the ceremony's witnesses, but it made both Charles and Elsie tremble with anticipation.

#####

Their kisses on their wedding night were both fiery and sweet as they began their journey toward knowing each other in every way possible. It was here, the first night they shared a bed, that Elsie experienced yet another kind of extraordinary kiss. Charles had kissed her lips, of course, and her neck as well, before they made it to their wedding day. She knew enough about this kind of intimacy to know that most men found a woman's breasts particularly attractive. She was surprised, however, that he seemed to want to kiss every bit of exposed skin on her body, and since she was completely naked before they finally fell asleep tangled up together, there was plenty of skin for him to cover. She was caught between amusement and wonder when he kissed her shoulder, her stomach, her elbow, her knee, and her wrist. Charles had told her he adored her and she believed him, but when he kissed her everywhere, she _felt_ it as well.

#####

Married life was a mixture of ordinary and extraordinary kisses. The extraordinary kisses happened in moments of passion and emotion. The ordinary kisses happened every day, sometimes routinely and sometimes at random, and they carried with them feelings of comfort, safety, and tenderness. Charles kissed Elsie every morning at breakfast. Elsie kissed Charles every night before they fell asleep. They kissed each time one of them left or returned home. Elsie sometimes kissed Charles as she passed him, walking through a room. Wherever her lips could easily reach him, usually his back or his chest, she dropped a quick kiss and continued on her way. Charles used his height to his advantage and took to kissing the top of Elsie's head.

#####

Elsie cherished every kiss, ordinary or extraordinary, because she knew that there would someday be a last kiss. It was not a morbid or gloomy thought, brought on by advancing age or fear of death. She was a pragmatic woman, and she had seen enough young death to know that it could come to anyone at any time. She was not young, but she was in love, and expected to be so for the rest of her life, however long that might be. She would mourn Charles with all of her heart if she were the one left behind, but just so long as she kept kissing her husband and being kissed by him, she would have nothing to regret.

_The end._

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	12. Literature

**Literature: a story involving or influenced by the book a character is reading.**

**Honestly, I don't set out trying to drop **_**Pride & Prejudice**_** into all my stories, but sometimes it just happens. Hopefully it will still be amusing to anyone who's never read **_**P&P**_** (or seen any of the movies).**

"Why do you keep reading it if it makes you angry?" Charles asked before taking a sip of wine.

"It doesn't make me _angry_," Elsie answered. "I just sometimes don't think Elizabeth ought to have married Darcy. She would be better off with someone who hadn't treated her so abominably."

"So you don't think she should forgive him for it, once she finds out he's nicer than she thought? He does apologize, after all."

"Perhaps." Elsie shrugged. "It's a pity Henry Tilney isn't a character in _Pride & Prejudice_ rather than _Northanger Abbey_. I think he and Elizabeth would do well together. I suppose that wouldn't be quite fair to poor Catherine Morland, though."

Charles laughed out loud. "What if _you_ were Elizabeth Bennet? What would you do?"

"Not marry Darcy, that's for certain," she replied. "Maybe not marry anybody. I know all about the entail, believe me, but perhaps I'll meet someone else. Or perhaps I'll be happily single for a long time, even the rest of my life, now my sister's got a rich husband. Anyway, suppose I do have to work. Would that really be so dreadful?"

Charles was still very amused. "To you, maybe not, but just imagine if someone told one of the upstairs girls that she must either marry or work."

Elsie lifted her chin just a bit. "You said imagine _I_ was Elizabeth Bennet," she pointed out stubbornly. "And _I_ am not afraid of hard work."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "But I still think you could be happy with Darcy, a man in love with you against his will. Eventually it is no longer against his will, remember."

Elsie sighed, rolling her eyes. "You're a Darcy apologist, I see."

"I see a lot of myself in him," Charles told her. "A foolish man who tries for all the wrong reasons not to love a wonderful woman. But loving her makes him a better man."

"Very philosophical, I must say," Elsie said, pursing her lips. "I didn't know you resisted her before you courted her. I do want you to remember her kindly, but I can't say I would call a woman 'wonderful' who ran off with another man when she could have married you."

Charles's brows drew together in momentary confusion, but then he began to laugh. "No, I can see myself in Darcy, but I'm afraid I learned my lesson far later in life than he did."

Elsie was puzzled. "And how did your story turn out, Mr. Darcy? Did she turn you down with a blistering tongue-lashing? For I know as well as you that you're not married."

"Well, that depends on you… Elizabeth." Charles was seated firmly in his chair, but he felt as though he were perched precariously on the edge of a cliff. His heart pounded, though he tried to remain calm.

"What?" Elsie eyed him speculatively.

Charles pushed on. "I've had a few blistering tongue-lashings from you over the years, so I'm hoping you've come round to me, or that you think you could, and we can skip ahead a bit."

"Me?" Elsie could easily understand what he seemed to be implying, but she was still a little surprised.

"Come, Elizabeth, you're a clever woman. I think you understand me." His eyes twinkled.

Elsie smiled slightly. "Yes, I think I do," she answered in some wonder. "Where are we in the story?"

"We're about to take a walk with your sister and her rich, handsome fiancé." Charles stood and gestured toward the door of his pantry. "Shall we go for a walk?"

Elsie stayed seated and shook her head quickly, her smile widening. "No, that won't be necessary. I can give you an answer here and now. But you still must ask the question." She looked up at him expectantly.

"Very well." Charles took her hand and pulled her up from her seat to stand facing him. He retained her hand and looked down at it for a few moments before raising his face and smiling into her eyes. "Elsie Hughes, I tried not to love you. I wasn't allowed to love you and my heart had been broken. But I do love you, and loving you makes me a better man. I hope you will consent to be my wife."

"Of course I will," she said gently, still smiling openly.

Now it was Charles's turn to be surprised. "Of course? Why 'of course'?"

Elsie laughed. "Do you think I've never thought of it before?" she asked. "Yes, I love you and I will marry you."

Charles's smile matched hers. "So what happened next?" he wanted to know. "With Elizabeth and Darcy, I mean."

Her expression turned a little mischievous. "Well, Austen never wrote anything about it, but I've always thought there must have been at least one kiss after she accepted him."

Charles drew a little nearer. "More than one," he said quietly. "I'm sure of it."

"Well, they _are_ fictional characters, so I think we can decide for ourselves, don't you?" she murmured.

He answered her with a kiss. It was a sweet kiss, filled with love and promise. She sighed against his lips. Charles pulled away slightly and looked down at her. Elsie's eyes were closed and on her upturned face was the most contented smile he'd ever seen her wearing. He took the hand that he still held and placed it on his chest before burying one hand in her hair, wrapping an arm around her waist, and pulling her close for another kiss. Her sighs and gentle moans encouraged Charles and soon he had steered her across the room and pushed her up against the wall, kissing her fiercely. By now she had wrapped her arms around his neck and was kissing him back with equal force. His hands wandered about her body, caressing her through her dress. He moved his lips away from her mouth and placed tiny kisses along her jaw.

"I don't think Mr. Darcy would have done _that_," Elsie remarked, breathless.

"Of course not," Charles murmured between kisses. "They were outside walking. Anyone might have seen them."

"That's not what I meant," she replied.

"It was a hundred years ago, love." He moved his lips to her neck.

"So it was."

"And you can be sure he'd thought about it before, even if he didn't do it right then and there."

"Oh?" It was all Elsie could say, distracted as she was by what he was doing to her neck with his lips and teeth and tongue.

"Yes," he rumbled in her ear. "He's thought about it quite a lot, and for a long time. Even while he was trying not to love her."

"You shock me," she said softly, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

"I doubt that," he laughed, kissing his way back up to her lips. "Certainly Elizabeth must have thought of it at least once or twice before."

"I don't know," Elsie answered. "Elizabeth was entirely inexperienced."

"And you?"

"Only slightly more experienced than Elizabeth," she admitted. "Any man who tried for more than a kiss got that tongue-lashing you mentioned."

"But certainly you have some imagination," Charles speculated before seizing her lips with his. It was a few moments before he let her speak again.

"Oh, yes," Elsie whispered.

"Tell me." His voice was dark and hot. "Your wish is my command."

"Very well," she acquiesced. "My first wish is for another kiss. I'm still thinking about what will come next."

"Hmmm," Charles murmured nuzzling her neck. "That could present a problem, love."

"Why is that?" Elsie asked breathlessly.

"I was hoping my kiss might render you unable to think."

She had already come to that conclusion; Elsie's plan now was simply to make him equally incapable of rational thought. "Do your worst, Mr. Darcy," she breathed.

Charles laughed and bent to kiss her again.

_The end._

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	13. Music

**Music: a story about our characters that involves one or both of them singing a song.**

It was a little chilly, but Elsie was so thrilled she didn't notice. She was on her way to the music hall with Molly. She had been working in London for six months, but this would be the first time she had a chance to savor the delights of the Metropolis.

"Are you excited, Elsie?" Molly asked.

"Aye, that I am!" her young companion answered. "I'll be grateful to you for the rest of my days, Molly. However did you manage to persuade Mrs. Bowers to let us go?"

"I told her I'd keep an eye on you," Molly replied. "'Our Elsie's a good girl,' I said. Now you had best not prove me wrong or I'll see you get extra work for a month. I am not head housemaid for nothing."

"Of course, Molly. I'd never like to see you in trouble with Mrs. Bowers. She's quite terrifying!"

"Oh, she's not so bad, once you get used to her ways. She seems a bit of a shrew when you first meet her, but she's a good sort."

Elsie wasn't sure she believed that the frightening housekeeper could be a 'good sort,' but she supposed Mrs. Bowers must have some good in her if she was allowing two of her maids to spend an evening at the music hall.

When they arrived, they had just enough time before the show started to take their seats in the middle of the theatre. The chatter among the other patrons, as well as sounds of instruments tuning, increased Elsie's anticipation even further. A few minutes later, the curtain opened, and the young maid was transported to another world.

#####

Charles was in a contemplative mood that night as he mentally prepared himself for his performances. The Cheerful Charlies would go on soon, but the theatre had asked him to perform a solo act as well, later in the evening. In the wings it was quieter than the dressing rooms, and he stood watching the opening act, though he was lost in his own thoughts. It was to be two love songs tonight, one with Grigg and one on his own. The Cheerful Charlies had performed "She's So Sweet" many times before, but only lately had it taken on more meaning to Charles. He'd recently met a girl named Alice, and the song made him think of her, especially the opening lines.

_I know the sweetest girl in town, sir  
><em>_Quite the sweetest of the sweet_

Alice and her sister Susan would also be singing tonight and Charles knew it would be a treat for the audience. Susan had the loveliest lyric soprano voice that Charles had ever heard, but Alice harmonized admirably, and was far nicer than her sister. Susan wasn't a bad woman, but all the accolades she received had made her vain. Sweet Alice seemed unaffected by any praise she received, and Charles thought her modesty very charming. He'd taken to spending more time at the theatre during the day, hoping he might steal a few moments with her after rehearsals. The Lark and the Dove, as they called themselves, had an exacting music master from Germany who worked the sisters hard, though he paid most attention to Susan. Herr Schmidt believed in Susan's potential, but he was not overimpressed by her as most others were. Charles smiled as the amusingly high-strung little man lamented Susan's diction and the lack of precision in her hemidemisemiquavers. Alice might not have received as much attention from audiences as her sister did, but she also largely escaped the master's criticism. Charles admired her ability to blend into the background, ably supporting her sister's flamboyant songs, but always appearing content in this role.

Before long, Grigg appeared at Charles's elbow and they made their way onto the stage to sing together about this sweet and lovely girl. Charles still considered his partner a friend, but a year working with him had taught Charles that he and Grigg were not much alike. The other man was more flamboyant and his morals were looser. Charles would not claim to be a complete innocent, but nor did he take up with any and every woman he could, as Grigg did. In fact, Grigg had at one time had a fling with Susan and Charles thought them rather well-matched, but it did not last. Alice, on the other hand, was somehow different from any of the other women he had encountered during his time on the stage. She seemed wholly unspoilt, and in time Charles hoped to court her. If he had not known the song and dance so well, from constant repetition, he might have been distracted by thoughts of Alice that the last verse now invariably brought to his mind.

_Now p'haps you'd rather think this beauty  
><em>_Who's photo everywhere you'll find  
><em>_Knows well that little word called 'duty'  
><em>_And to real affection is not blind  
><em>_And spite of all this envious rumour  
><em>_She lives a pure and blameless life  
><em>_And will, if I can, in the humour  
><em>_One day catch her, be my wife._

He and Grigg sang the final chorus and exited stage right. Tonight they were immediately followed by The Lark and the Dove. Grigg headed immediately for the dressing rooms, where he no doubt had stashed a flask of something and some sandwiches to share with whichever woman happened to catch his fancy. Charles stayed in the wings, trying not to get in the way of the backstage crew, and listened to the act. He enjoyed their song, but about halfway through it, he noticed that Herr Schmidt stood beside him. The music master clicked his tongue and muttered to himself.

"Vierundsechzigstelnote. Ich sage Vierundsechzigstelnote! Aber dieser Unsinn?" The man gestured dismissively in the direction of the stage, with a shake of his head and a dramatic sigh, before turning and walking away, apparently no longer interested in listening to the act.

Charles turned back to hear the rest of their song. She was already _his_ Alice in his mind. Soon, very soon, he would court her in earnest.

#####

Elsie barely blinked as she watched the show. There was so much to take in, so much that she had never seen before, and she didn't want to miss a second of it. It was all wonderful to her. She had never been in a theatre and she found it exhilarating. Molly enjoyed the show as well, although she had attended before, so it was not quite so overwhelming for her as it was for the younger woman.

Elsie was thrilled when a tall man came out on stage by himself. He had been part of one of the acts earlier, but it seemed he was now going to perform a solo act. She thought him very handsome and looked forward to hearing his song. It was about a girl he called "Pretty Little Mary." The song told of a pretty girl named Mary who lived on a farm and fed chickens. The singer fell in love with her and by the end of the song, he had married her. Elsie remembered feeding chickens as a girl, and she had a little daydream formed by the end of the song that the tall, handsome man was singing to her. Her name wasn't Mary, but it didn't matter. Couldn't he easily substitute Elsie for Mary when he came to her father's farm to woo her?

The rest of the acts were marvelous, but Elsie was only half paying attention to them, as her imagination painted pictures of being courted by the man whom she knew only as Charlie, from his previous act. She knew these little fantasies were not real, but she enjoyed leaving reality behind for a few hours of entertainment. She was sorry when the curtain closed for the last time and she and Molly made their way out of the theatre, but the whole evening had been breathtaking. She would remember it for a long time to come.

#####

Charles stepped out the stage door for some fresh air after he finished singing about "Pretty Little Mary," feeding her chickens. He liked the song, though Mary was nothing like Alice. Alice had been brought up in the city and would probably be afraid of a live chicken if she ever came across one. Still, this pretty Mary seemed a sweet girl as well, and there was something to be said for the wholesome beauty of a farmer's daughter. There were many kinds of beautiful girls.

With the footlights shining in his eyes, and the story of pretty Mary on his lips, Charles had found himself wondering tonight about the people in the audience. He could hear their applause and their laughter, but the lights prevented him from seeing them. He sometimes wondered if, in amongst the crowd, there might be someone he would meet in the future. If he married Alice, he hoped to leave the music hall behind and take some ordinary, respectable, and steady employment, so he could be sure she was taken care of. Perhaps someone in the audience tonight would be his employer, the local grocer, or his neighbor. Would they recognize him if they crossed paths? He had entertained thousands of people in his time on the stage. London and the world beyond were large enough that he might never run across a single one of them, but just small enough that it was always a possibility.

#####

"Did you tell him?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"I would prefer to say I put him out of his misery," Mrs. Patmore answered.

The two women shared a smile before going their separate ways, Mrs. Patmore to the kitchen and Mrs. Hughes to her sitting room. Mrs. Hughes was brought up short in the corridor, however, by the sound of singing. She was only a little surprised to find that it was Mr. Carson, singing as he polished silver in his pantry. She stepped a little closer to watch and to listen.

_Dashing away with a smoothing iron  
><em>_Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away_

Mrs. Hughes froze where she stood. Something was tickling at her memory and she tried to grasp it. She knew the song he was singing, but there was something else familiar about it. Mrs. Hughes closed her eyes and listened. When realization struck her, her eyes flew open and she rushed to her sitting room and sat down at her desk. She smiled, even laughed a little, as her mind was flooded with memories. Her first job in London, Molly the head housemaid, the theatre they had visited, that one magical night of music, the tall and handsome singer, his marvelous singing voice. Mrs. Hughes remembered now that Mr. Carson had seemed vaguely familiar to her when she had first arrived at Downton, but she could not place him anywhere in her memory. What possible connection could she have made between the man of her girlish fantasies and the starched and proper butler she met when she was no longer a girl? They were both tall and handsome and answered to the name Charles, but that was where the similarities ended, or seemed to, at any rate.

Mrs. Hughes wondered if she should speak of it to Mr. Carson. No doubt he would be mortified; she had never heard his past in the music halls mentioned, so it seemed it was a well-guarded secret. If she ever chose to tell him about it, she would have to tread carefully and choose her moment well in order to shield his dignity. She did hope that she might one day be able to convince him how much joy he had brought her, and likely many other people who had seen his act.

It might have been due in part to the fact that she had just learned she was not going to die of a terrible, painful disease, but Mrs. Hughes could not prevent a girlish laugh from escaping her when she thought of the fact that for something like twenty years she had been living in the same house with the man she had once imagined wooing her as she fed chickens on her father's farm. It was almost too incredible to be believed, but hearing him sing had convinced her beyond a shadow of a doubt. Mrs. Hughes wondered how she would meet him when their paths next crossed at some point later in the day. She thought she might have to make a concerted effort to suppress a silly grin.

_The end._

**Thanks to Kissman for help with research on music hall songs.**

**You can find lyrics for **_**She's So Sweet**_** and **_**Pretty Little Mary**_** by going to monologues dot co dot uk slash musichall and clicking on the letter corresponding to each title (S or P, in this case). There are tons of others for your entertainment as well.**

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


	14. Nostalgia

**Nostalgia: a story where one character reminisces about the other or shares a memory with the other.**

**Follow up to "Music" (previous chapter)**

Mrs. Hughes felt peculiarly happy tonight. She had felt unusually full of energy for several days, actually, since that afternoon when Dr. Clarkson had told her she didn't have cancer. She felt more whole and more truly herself. She knocked on Mr. Carson's pantry door and let herself in. He looked up from his desk and smiled. "Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I wonder if you can spare some time for a little sherry tonight before you go to bed."

"I certainly can," he replied. "Would you give me just five minutes?"

"Absolutely." Mrs. Hughes turned on her heel and went back to her sitting room.

Mr. Carson hurried to complete the task in front of him. He also felt different since that day Mrs. Hughes had gotten the good news from Dr. Clarkson. He thought it would pass, but currently it seemed there was very little, possibly nothing, he could refuse her. Fortunately she asked for very little, so he was only too happy to show the universe in these small ways how thankful he was that she was not about to be taken from him. She did not know that he knew about her illness, so they never spoke of it, but it didn't matter. She wasn't going anywhere, and he was more glad than he could say. Mr. Carson finished his work and tidied up his desk before taking his sherry decanter and glasses to Mrs. Hughes's sitting room.

She looked up when he arrived, and gave him a bright smile. His stomach did a little flip flop and he smiled back, his heart pounding, though he couldn't have said why. He set down the tray, poured their sherry, and handed a glass to Mrs. Hughes. He sat at her table and she pulled her desk chair over so she could face him. Mr. Carson loved it when she did that. It made him a bit nervous, but there was something bewitching about Mrs. Hughes in the evening, looking him right in the eyes. He felt again that he could not resist her, could refuse her nothing, though in this case he was not sure what it was that he could not resist or refuse. However, it was too late for any rational speculation on that subject now that Mrs. Hughes sat facing him.

There was a comfortable silence for a little while before Mrs. Hughes spoke. "Do you get to spend much time away from Grantham House during the Season?" she asked. "I mean to visit museums or parks or go to the theatre?"

Mr. Carson was surprised by her question, but he answered readily. "I try to take at least one of my half days while we're in the Metropolis. It doesn't seem right to spend several months there every year without taking advantage of the opportunity to see some excellent sights."

Mrs. Hughes nodded approvingly. "I'll admit that I'm a little envious, Mr. Carson, but I did get a chance to enjoy one of the delights of London the first time I worked in a house there."

Mr. Carson smiled. "I'm glad. Were you very young?" he wanted to know.

"I'd been in service for several years, but I was still fairly young," she answered. "Young enough to be thrilled almost beyond expression when the housekeeper allowed the head housemaid to take me to the music hall."

Mr. Carson cleared his throat. "The music hall?"

"Yes. I'd heard about it but had never seen it." Mrs. Hughes smiled at the memory of her excitement that night.

"And... did you enjoy it, Mrs. Hughes?" Mr. Carson asked seriously.

"Oh, yes," she sighed. "I was absolutely amazed. The actors, singers, dancers, costumes, and everything else were beyond anything I had ever seen."

"I'm glad you liked it," Mr. Carson said.

"I wished, and I do still wish, that I could somehow speak to all of the performers and tell them just how much joy they had brought me that evening. I'm not even sure if any subsequent experience has surpassed that one special night."

Mr. Carson looked at Mrs. Hughes intently, his expression thoughtful. "It's remarkable that a few hours in a theatre was so special and memorable to you."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "Even more than that, I developed quite a crush on one of the performers."

Mr. Carson chuckled. "My, my! What would the housekeeper say?" he teased.

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "Surely you don't think I was foolish enough to mention it to her?"

"I could never think that, Mrs. Hughes," he answered with exaggerated solemnity.

"There was this tall, handsome fellow who sang a song about courting a pretty farm girl," she told him. "I can't remember the words anymore, except that the girl's name was Mary and she was feeding chickens when the young man came to call on her. I took to daydreaming about the singer coming to my father's farm in Argyll to woo me. But I would know his voice anywhere, even now."

Mr. Carson was staring at her now, blinking very quickly.

"Are you quite all right, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked, her brows drawing together.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat and finally tore his gaze from her face, fixing his eyes on a spot just above her head. "Yes, yes. Perfectly well, thank you." He set down his glass and tugged at his waistcoat. "I'm sure you're tired, Mrs. Hughes, and I'd hate to be a nuisance, so I'll say good night."

"Wait," Mrs. Hughes commanded quietly, stopping him before he stood up.

Mr. Carson could not do otherwise than obey, although he was now very uncomfortable.

"I'm not very tired, Mr. Carson," she remarked. "And I do wish to tell you a little more before you go to bed."

Mr. Carson took a deep breath and answered softly. "Very well."

"I heard you singing the other day while you were polishing the silver," Mrs. Hughes told him, maintaining eye contact. She felt brave; he was incapable of looking away. "_You_ were that handsome fellow, singing about Mary. It was you, wasn't it?"

Mr. Carson remained trapped in her gaze and eventually he was forced to answer. "It was," he admitted. "I hoped you would never find out."

"Why, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked gently.

At last he was able to look away, though it was too late to hide his shameful secret now. She knew all.

"Your respect is very important to me, and now you will never look at me in the same way again."

"You're right, I won't," Mrs. Hughes agreed. "I respect you just as much as I always have and now I'm grateful to you, too, for that marvelous evening and my happy memories and lovely daydreams. I've got my wish now. I can say thank you." She gave him a brilliant smile and yet he still could only frown.

"But how can your good opinion of me not be damaged?" he wanted to know. "I wasn't respectable, Mrs. Hughes."

"Mr. Carson, you are _always_ respectable, no matter what you are doing," she told him firmly. After a pause, she added quietly, "always handsome, too." Mrs. Hughes caught sight of his shocked expression and wondered what she could say now. She hadn't meant to go so far, but there was nothing to be done about it now."

"Mrs. Hughes, I don't know what to..." He trailed off, his face red and his voice strangled.

"You don't have to say anything, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes assured him. "If you'd rather not speak of it ever again, I will respect that wish, but I didn't think it was right not to tell you how much that evening meant to me, once I discovered the other day that I'd been living under the same roof as my daydream suitor for so many years."

"You... you think me handsome?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Now Mrs. Hughes looked away, blushing. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to say it aloud. But yes, I do think you handsome. Then and now."

"Well, I... I thank you."

Mrs. Hughes stood purposefully. "We needn't speak of this again. I'll leave you alone now, Mr. Carson." She made her way toward the door, but Mr. Carson stopped her with a hand on her elbow. She turned quickly to face him, her eyes questioning. She couldn't remember when he had last touched her.

"You should know, then, that I think you very beautiful. Always." Mr. Carson released her. "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

She was silent for a few moments. "Good night, Mr. Carson," she murmured. Mrs. Hughes left the room and walked down the corridor and up the stairs.

Still alone in her sitting room, Mr. Carson was deep in thought. The easy path would be never to broach the subject again. But could he really let her slip through his fingers like that? He wasn't sure exactly what he felt for her, but the last few days had taught him that she was more dear to him than he had previously known. Perhaps she would help him understand himself. With a slight smile on his lips, he rose from his chair and took the decanter and glasses back to his pantry before making his way quietly to bed.

_The end._

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


	15. Obvious

_**Warning: S5 spoilers!**_

**Obvious: a story where one character drops some not-so-subtle hints to the other about their feelings or desires.**

Mrs. Patmore paced back and forth in Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. Mrs. Hughes watched from her seat at her desk.

"Really, Mrs. Patmore, I thought you'd got past this," the housekeeper remarked, mildly exasperated.

"So did I," the cook returned. "But now I'm not sure I'll ever get over being angry at him."

"You and Mr. Carson don't agree about Archie and the war memorial. He's not likely to change his mind, and you're not likely to change yours. Why not make peace with that fact and let it go? You'll only make yourself, as well as the rest of us, more uncomfortable," Mrs. Hughes reasoned.

"So now you're defending him?" Mrs. Patmore demanded angrily.

"I'm not defending anyone! I just think you need to let it lie and move on."

The cook shook her head. "I don't envy you, Mrs. Hughes. I can stay in my kitchen all day and avoid him, but you have to rub along with him every day, all day. He's a pompous ass and there's the end of it. I don't know how you can put up with him at all." Mrs. Patmore left the room in a huff.

Mrs. Hughes smiled and shook her head and, turning back to her desk. "It's because I love him, Mrs. Patmore," she murmured. "Pompous or not, I just want to be near him."

Mrs. Patmore was long gone and did not hear the housekeeper's words, nor was she meant to. No one was meant to hear them, especially not the butler who was standing quietly outside the door. Mr. Carson wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but when he went looking for Mrs. Hughes and found her occupied, he couldn't help overhearing the last part of the conversation. He was lucky that Mrs. Patmore only threw him a glare as she passed and continued on her way to the kitchen. He was also lucky to have heard the words Mrs. Hughes said to herself, no doubt intended for no audience, but spoken clearly enough that he could hear and understand her very well. Mr. Carson retreated to his pantry. He would ask her about the dessert service later. Right now he needed to recover from the shock of hearing her words.

#####

When she went to her sitting room for the last time that evening, Mrs. Hughes was surprised to find a small bunch of daisies, tied with a yellow ribbon, on the table. She picked them up and looked for a note or card or something else to indicate who the giver was, but she found no clue. She went to fetch a small vase for the flowers and she mulled over the possibilities. Once or twice one of her maids had given her flowers, but it was always in response to some kindness she had extended - comforting a homesick girl or caring for a sick one. Mrs. Hughes could think of no such circumstance that had occurred recently. The only other person it might be was Mr. Carson. She was expecting him for sherry a little later; she would ask him then. She placed the vase of flowers on her table and was pleased with how they looked. She took a seat at her desk and absently looked over her work.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hughes looked up to find Mr. Carson in the doorway, bearing the tray with a decanter of sherry and two small glasses.

"Come in, Mr. Carson." The ritual began. Mrs. Hughes pulled her desk chair closer to the seat he usually took. Mr. Carson poured the sherry and then sat down across from her.

Mr. Carson surprised Mrs. Hughes immediately. "I'm glad to see you received my flowers," he remarked calmly.

"I wondered who the mysterious giver was," she replied. "There was no card."

"I'm sorry about that," he apologized. "I didn't have time to write a note."

"It's quite all right, Mr. Carson," she assured him. "But what are they for? It isn't my birthday."

He smiled. "I thought I remembered that you like daisies. Did I get that right?"

Mrs. Hughes was a little flustered. "Yes, you did. I thank you. I do like them very much. But what is the occasion?"

"Have I embarrassed you, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked, concerned. "If you prefer it I won't leave you flowers anymore."

"No, not at all," she responded, giving up on trying to learn the reason for the gift. "I'm always happy to receive flowers."

"Good, I'm glad. They do look quite cheery in this room." He looked at the vase with a slight smile and then turned his eyes on Mrs. Hughes. The way he looked at her was somehow both gentle and intense. She stopped breathing for a few seconds, but her heart pounded. She smiled nervously in return. She'd hoped for such a look from him someday, but now that his eyes caressed her face like that, she didn't know what to say or how to act.

"Yes, they are very nice," she answered lamely.

"Mrs. Hughes, I've a half day coming up soon, and I know you do, too. Would you allow me to escort you to tea in Ripon? I know of several good teashops there."

Mrs. Hughes just stared at him for a few moments. "Do you mean it?" she asked at last.

"Of course I do. Do you think I would ask if I didn't mean it?"

"Well, no," she conceded. "You'd never do that. I'm just surprised is all."

He looked at her hopefully. "Surprised, but also pleased, I hope?"

"Yes, very pleased. Of course, I would be happy to take tea with you in Ripon."

He gave her another smile now that she could not but return and they sat sipping sherry silently, each lost in thought and each other's eyes. Mr. Carson finished his sherry and set his glass on the tray. "Would you prefer Wednesday or Thursday? For tea?"

"I think Wednesday," Mrs. Hughes replied, with no thought beyond the fact that she wanted to have tea alone with Mr. Carson at the earliest possible opportunity.

"Very good," he agreed. "I look forward to it."

Mrs. Hughes finished her sherry and regretfully wished Mr. Carson a good night and went to bed.

#####

Mrs. Hughes found a red rose on her desk after breakfast the next morning. The thorns had been removed and a small card lay on the desk. She opened it to read the brief note.

_Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

_I wish you a lovely morning, afternoon, and evening. I look forward to our glass of sherry tonight, as always._

_Sincerely,_

_CC_

Mrs. Hughes smiled, smelling the rose. She was not as surprised by it as she had been by the daisies of last night and then by Mr. Carson's invitation to tea, but she was still feeling a little off-balance. It was a more familiar feeling to her now, as Mr. Carson had for months been speaking to her just a little more tenderly than ever before, and at times he even flirted with her. It was the only time when feeling off-balance did not make her uncomfortable. She did sometimes feel flustered and uncertain, but never unhappy. She wasn't sure what to make of Mr. Carson's behavior, but she decided to wait and see how things progressed.

After tea, Mrs. Hughes found a small package of lemon drops on her desk, with another note from Mr. Carson.

_Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

_I know they're your favorite. I hope you enjoy them. You deserve a treat._

_Sincerely,_

_CC_

At dinner, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes chatted about this and that. Their words were as ordinary as could be, but their eyes spoke a different language, one that left him smiling broadly and her slightly flushed by the time they left the table and went their separate ways, each anticipating their evening sherry with delight. It was always wonderful when they could be alone and able to relax and enjoy one another's company. Thus, when Mrs. Patmore joined them that evening, both were quite disappointed, though they each tried not to be rude.

Mrs. Patmore, however, sensed that something was afoot. She sat down with her glass of sherry and surveyed the room surreptitiously. The little vase on the table held a red rose and some daisies; she hadn't noticed that yesterday. She observed the behavior of her two companions as the three of them made conversation.

"Dinner was rather calm tonight," Mr. Carson was saying. "It made a nice change."

Mrs. Patmore laughed. "Yes, I got to serve my dinner and pudding at a normal pace without any dramatic interruptions."

"A relief, but a disappointment to some," Mrs. Hughes said, her lips twitching. "When someone leaves the dining room in a huff in the middle of the meal it gives the staff something to talk about."

Mr. Carson frowned. "They shouldn't be gossiping like that."

Mrs. Hughes looked at him, amused. "Perhaps not, but I think they may take their cue from you, Mr. Carson," she teased.

He looked taken aback. "Me?"

"I rarely have to leave my sitting room to hear the latest news from upstairs," she commented. "The butler keeps me well-informed. Don't forget 'The Battle of Little Minx.'"

"What's this?" Mrs. Patmore asked, reinserting herself into the conversation.

"Mr. Carson wouldn't like to admit it, but he's as incorrigible a gossip as any of the others," Mrs. Hughes replied.

"I am not," he argued, but he was smiling now, raising an eyebrow, almost encouraging the housekeeper to needle him further. "Just because I tell _you_ what's going on doesn't mean I'm a gossip. Certainly you've noticed that you're the only person who merits this special treatment."

Mrs. Hughes flushed slightly. "Am I supposed to be flattered by that?"

"Do you like to be flattered?" he asked her provocatively.

Mrs. Patmore sighed heavily, rolled her eyes, and tossed back the rest of her sherry in one gulp. "Right. I think I'll leave you to it," she said, standing up. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes looked at her, both just now remembering that she was in the room. "Good night. Don't stay up _all_ night bantering. We've work to do in the morning, same as always." Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes wished her good night and she was gone.

Mr. Carson turned back to Mrs. Hughes. "I hope you haven't forgotten our plans for tomorrow."

"Of course I haven't," she assured him. "Tea in Ripon. I'm quite looking forward to it."

"Good." Mr. Carson then gave Mrs. Hughes a smile so charming that she was extremely grateful that she was sitting down. "So am I."

"Thank you for the rose and the lemon drops, Mr. Carson," she said softly. "It was very thoughtful of you to leave me those little surprises."

"You're very welcome, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Carson set down his empty glass and rose from his chair. "I think it's time for me to go up."

Mrs. Hughes nodded and got up from her seat as well. Mr. Carson motioned for her to precede him out of the room and she went into the corridor, but stopped to wait for him so she could lock her door. Her sitting room now secured, they walked toward the stairs. Mrs. Hughes looked up at Mr. Carson in surprise when he placed his hand lightly at the small of her back as they walked. He was smiling, though not looking at her.

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she said when it was time for them to separate.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes. Sweet dreams."

#####

The time came for them to leave the house and Mrs. Hughes waited in her sitting room, fussing with her hatpins. Any moment she expected Mr. Carson to arrive with instructions on how they would depart, to throw anyone off their scent. 'You're going into the village, Mrs. Hughes? What a coincidence; so am I.' he would say, careful to speak within earshot of as many other servants as possible. 'Why don't we walk together?' Or they would simply leave the house separately and meet on the road or in the village to catch the bus together. It was to be another day of surprises however.

Mr. Carson knocked on her open door. "Are you ready to go, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked. "We'd better hurry or we'll miss the bus."

Mrs. Hughes turned from her mirror and smiled. "Let's be off, then." She joined him in the corridor.

"Mr. Barrow's on alert in case we're delayed," Mr. Carson told her. "I don't think we'll be back late, but he knows where we're going and will manage dinner if anything happens."

"You told Mr. Barrow where we're going?" she questioned.

"Well, I didn't tell him which teashop we'll be visiting, but yes, I did." He preceded her out the back door and held it open for her. "Don't tell me you're embarrassed to have me escort you to tea."

Mrs. Hughes turned sharply to look at him and opened her mouth to reassure him, but as soon as she saw the expression on his face, she closed her mouth and smiled. She could see that he did not really think she was embarrassed to be seen with him. He was _flirting_ with her. Again. And she loved it. "Not at all, Mr. Carson. I only thought _you_ would be embarrassed for Mr. Barrow to know of your personal business."

Mr. Carson offered her his arm and she took it. They made their way from the yard to the road that would take them to the village. "Why would I be embarrassed to be seen with you?" he wanted to know. "You look very pretty, Mrs. Hughes, and if you keep smiling like that, all the other men will be jealous of me."

Mrs. Hughes was rendered well and truly speechless and she could not but smile and blush deeply at this unexpected flattery. She would almost as soon expect Lord Grantham to compliment her on her appearance as Mr. Carson. And what a compliment! He was not simply hinting at her that the color of her blouse suited her or that her new hat looked very smart, but telling her quite plainly that he thought she looked very nice. They walked on in silence, Mrs. Hughes thinking about Mr. Carson's comments. He had told Mr. Barrow not only that he was going to Ripon, but that his purpose was to escort Mrs. Hughes to tea. Telling Mr. Barrow anything was tantamount to announcing it at dinner to the entire staff; this was sure to be a very interesting bit of news to all the staff, and perhaps even to the family, for that matter. It would be all over the house by the time they returned.

#####

A few days later, Mrs. Hughes was feeling thoroughly spoiled and she still did not know why. She could certainly guess, but she didn't feel quite confident enough to do that. If Mr. Carson did love her, why did he not say so? She supposed that all of these gestures might be his roundabout way of telling her, but she couldn't be sure. She was going to have to ask him plainly. She'd tried a few times to pin him down about why he had brought her flowers or some other treat, but she could get no answer besides, 'I thought you might like them.' Mrs. Hughes could be persistent, however, and she was determined to find out.

Tea on Wednesday had been lovely. Mr. Carson had been quite a gentleman, pulling out her chair and taking her coat. They had chatted about everything under the sun and she had lost track of time completely, but somehow Mr. Carson had them back on the road in time to return to the house for the family's dinner. On the bus back to Downton, he had invited her to take tea with him again the next time they could both take a half day, which he hoped would be soon, and she had accepted.

It was almost time for the staff's dinner and Mrs. Hughes got up from her desk and made her way to the servants' hall. She was brought up short when she heard someone speak her name and she stopped to listen, unseen. Some of the servants were gathering for their dinner and were having a gossip while they waited.

"It's true. Mr. Carson's courting Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Barrow was saying. "I never thought we'd see old Carson in love."

"In love with Mrs. Hughes?" Daisy asked. "How d'you figure that?"

"He's been leaving her flowers and candy every day," he replied. "_And_ they went to Ripon to have tea together the other day."

"How do you know that, Thomas?" Mr. Bates wanted to know.

"This house has no secrets, Mr. Bates," Thomas answered.

Anna spoke up. "Now I think of it, Mrs. Hughes did tell me that she and Mr. Carson are talking about buying a property together to rent out or run as a guest house. Maybe they'll retire together."

"That doesn't sound much like Mr. Carson," Mr. Molesley remarked skeptically.

"Just watch him when she's in the room," Miss Baxter told them. "Or the way he looks for her as soon as he enters a room. It's pretty obvious."

"Well, if it's true, I think it's romantic," Daisy stated.

Mrs. Hughes saw Mrs. Patmore saunter into the servants' hall. "Daisy, what are you doing in here? There's still work to be done."

"I'm just coming, Mrs. Patmore," Daisy assured her. "Thomas says Mr. Carson is in love-"

"In love with Mrs. Hughes," Mrs. Patmore interrupted. "Yes, yes, I know. Are you lot just now figuring that out?" She rolled her eyes and left the room, Daisy following her out.

Discussion of the butler and housekeeper's relationship died out and they moved on to a new topic of gossip. Mrs. Hughes walked into the servants' hall now, as though she had not heard their earlier conversation. If Daisy had still been present, Mrs. Hughes thought she might find herself under scrutiny, but aside of a curious glance from Mr. Molesley, none of them behaved any differently than usual. Miss Baxter smiled briefly at the housekeeper, as she often did, Mr. and Mrs. Bates went back to talking quietly to each other, and Mr. Barrow maintained his usual mildly insolent demeanor. When Mr. Carson arrived, however, all eyes were on him, ready to test Miss Baxter's assertion. He confirmed her statement, his eyes finding Mrs. Hughes among the crowd immediately. She blushed when he smiled at her.

Everyone sat and the meal began. "Are you quite all right, Mrs. Hughes?" Mr. Carson asked quietly.

"Yes, of course," she answered quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He studied her face briefly. "You look a little flushed. I hope you're not coming down with a cold."

"I'm perfectly well, Mr. Carson," she replied crisply.

"Well, that's good." He smiled at Mrs. Hughes and took a bite of his stew.

_He really _must_ stop smiling at me like that,_ Mrs. Hughes thought. She never would have known just how devastatingly charming Mr. Carson could be if he so chose. "Mr. Carson, there's something I'd like to talk to you about. Will you join me tonight for sherry?"

He looked curious, but agreed immediately. "Of course. Sherry with you is the highlight of my day."

Mrs. Hughes leaned closer and lowered her voice. "What if Mrs. Patmore-"

"I won't come to you with the sherry until she's gone to bed," Mr. Carson interrupted softly. "If she asks, tell her you're too tired or that I'm too busy or some such."

Mrs. Hughes smiled and nodded her approval. "That's settled, then. I'll see you in my sitting room later."

#####

Later that night, Mrs. Hughes waited nervously in her sitting room. Mrs. Patmore had just popped in to wish her good night; the cook was far too tired today to join her friends for sherry. Mr. Carson would likely arrive at any moment with the decanter and small glasses. She had a feeling he was listening for Mrs. Patmore to go upstairs and would appear as soon as he could be sure she was gone.

Sure enough, a minute or two later he knocked on her open door. Mrs. Hughes looked up with a smile, but was surprised to see that Mr. Carson had arrived empty-handed. "You wanted to speak to me, Mrs. Hughes?" He looked a little nervous himself, and he closed the door behind him and sat down in his usual chair.

Mrs. Hughes did not question him about the sherry. That wasn't why she had invited him here, after all. "Mr. Carson, I've rather a forward question to ask you." His eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath to gather her courage. "You've been paying me special attention and giving me little gifts lately and I wonder… do you love me?"

Mr. Carson smiled. "I should think that would be obvious," he remarked.

"From any other man it would be," she replied. "But I'll admit it doesn't seem like you to be so…conspicuous."

He looked thoughtful. "I suppose you're right."

"So?" Mrs. Hughes looked expectantly at her companion.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes, I do love you." Mr. Carson held out his hand to her and she took it.

"Why did you never say?" she wondered.

"I didn't set out _not_ to say," he admitted. "But I was so enjoying wooing you. And I thought you would understand."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "I was almost sure. But I wanted to hear the words."

"Then I'll say them as often as you like." Mr. Carson stood up and tugged her to her feet. He bent to whisper in her ear. "I love you."

She rested her hands lightly on his chest. "Would you kiss me, Mr. Carson?" she murmured.

His hands settled on her hips. "Now it's you not saying what you mean," he told her, amused.

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "Very well. I love you, Mr. Carson. Now please kiss me."

Mr. Carson pulled her closer. "I will." And he kissed her until they were both breathless.

_The end._

**a/n: Thank you chelsie fan for help figuring out how to make the most subtle and discreet couple in the world fit this prompt without writing them too far out of character. About the only way one of them would be really obvious about his/her feelings is if he/she were sure of the other's. Hope you enjoyed!**

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


	16. Promises

**Promises: a story about one character making or upholding a promise to the other.**

Mr. Carson sat up in bed with a book open on his lap. If he had been reading the book, the dim light thrown across the pages by his small bedside lamp would not have been sufficient. However, his mind dwelt on images from the past and hopes for the future; the light made no difference to him. He was so deep in thought that he did not hear the tapping on his door or notice the door quietly opening. When the door clicked shut, however, he was dragged back into the present, where Mrs. Hughes stood just inside the door. She was in evening dress, only her shoes and her keys left behind in her bedroom, balancing in one hand a tray that bore a small decanter of sherry and two glasses.

Mr. Carson smiled broadly at her. "It's bad luck for you to see me tonight, Elsie," he told her.

She smiled back. "You don't believe that any more than I do."

"But you made no argument when Mrs. Patmore insisted on sending you to your room with your dinner on a tray."

"I decided it wasn't a point worth fighting over," Mrs. Hughes explained.

"And you knew you could visit me later."

"It didn't feel right to forgo our evening sherry, tonight of all nights."

Mr. Carson laid aside his book and gestured for her to put the tray down on the table beside his bed. She set it down, poured two glasses, and handed him one, before taking a seat in the worn but comfortable armchair on the other side of his bed. Pulling the chair as close to the bed as she could, she sipped her sherry slowly.

"I'm glad you came, Elsie."

"You couldn't sleep?" She pointed to his book.

He shook his head. "I was thinking of you."

"Nice things, I hope."

"What other things _could_ I be thinking?" His eyes twinkled.

She twinkled right back. "A great many things, I'm sure, but I'll let you keep thinking those nice things."

"Are you nervous, Elsie?" Mr. Carson asked.

"I suppose so," Mrs. Hughes replied. "What about you?"

"A little. I'll be nervous until we get to church, but once you're standing beside me in front of Mr. Travis, I'll be ready to take on anything."

"That's good, Charles. Because you'll be taking on a great deal, you know. We've been together all these years, but when I'm your wife-"

"It will be even better," he interrupted. "You'll promise to be mine and I'll promise to be yours."

"Yes, that's true," Mrs. Hughes admitted. "But I will be telling one lie in church tomorrow."

Mr. Carson frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to tell Mr. Travis that I will obey you."

He laughed quietly. "I would expect nothing else from you, my darling."

"I will mean all of the other promises I recite, Charles. There aren't many, and I will find them easy to keep. To have you, hold you, love you, and cherish you."

"Sometimes I think there ought to be more to the wedding vows. In just a few minutes a couple is bound together for life. Why not make a little more of it?"

"Style and show, Charles?" Mrs. Hughes teased.

"If you want to call it that."

"I'd be glad to make you a few more promises right now."

He raised his eyebrows. "What kind of promises?"

"Not the kind you'd like our friends to hear me say in church," she told him.

"Let's have it then, Elsie," he encouraged. "What else do you promise?"

"I promise to annoy you at least once a week," she began, eyes full of mischief. Mr. Carson laughed. "And I promise to tease you almost every day."

"Are you trying to talk me out of marrying you?" he asked, amused.

"It's not too late to change your mind," she commented.

"I'm afraid it is," he countered solemnly. "You've made me love you and now I can't live without you."

Mrs. Hughes wondered if Mr. Carson could see her blush in the dim light. "I didn't _make_ you do _anything,_ Charles."

"Perhaps," he allowed. "But I was given very little choice by whomever or whatever sets these things up. Cupid, perhaps?"

"It sounds as though you're marrying me against your will. If that's the case, we ought to call it off now," she suggested, the affectionate smile on her lips belying her serious words.

Mr. Carson smiled back. "Never. I fell in love with you without any effort, but not against my will."

"I suppose it's all right then."

"What about you?" he asked, turning the question back to Mrs. Hughes. "I've no doubt that if you set your mind to it you could fall in love with anyone you chose, but I doubt that's what happened."

"You're very flattering, Charles, but if that were true I would have chosen to fall in love with a man a little less stubborn than you."

Mr. Carson laid a hand over his heart and spoke with mock anguish. "You wound me, Elsie."

She smiled. "You know I'm only teasing, my dear. I'm desperately in love with you and I don't care how or why."

"I like to hear you say things like that. You make it sound as though I swept you off your feet, when we both know very well my proposal was clumsy at best."

Mrs. Hughes reached for his free hand and took it. "You told me you love me, which was what I most wanted to hear. And clumsy can still be romantic, you know."

Mr. Carson raised his eyebrows. "That's good news for me!"

She squeezed his hand. "You're much more charming than you know, Charles."

"I think I can promise you romance, then, Elsie. Between clumsy and unintentionally charming, your husband will spoil you rotten."

"I look forward to it," Mrs. Hughes replied, before being overtaken by a yawn.

"I think you'd better go to bed, young lady," Mr. Carson said. "You've a big day tomorrow." He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"As have you, Mr. Carson." Mrs. Hughes returned the salute, kissing his hand before releasing it to collect the tray and glasses. She made her way to the door and turned back to him. "I'll see you tomorrow, love," she murmured.

"I can't wait." Mr. Carson watched her disappear behind the door, closing it softly behind her. He turned off his lamp and laid down, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders. He sighed contentedly. A glass of sherry and a bit of flirting were just what he needed. _Now_ he could sleep.

_The end._

**a/n: **Sorry for the delay on this one, guys. I just couldn't make it work for a while. Writing a mistletoe fic was the perfect palate cleanser, however, and once I'd done that I was able to turn this one out pretty quickly. Hope you enjoyed! More to come.****

**Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments.**


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